This volume is made up of a series of sketches describing the most
interesting part of a bicycle journey around the world,—our ride
across Asia. We were actuated by no desire to make a “record” in
bicycle travel, although we covered 15,044 miles on the wheel, the
longest continuous land journey ever made around the world.

The day after we were graduated at Washington University, St. Louis,
Mo., we left for New York. Thence we sailed for Liverpool on June 23,
1890. Just three years afterward, lacking twenty days, we rolled into
New York on our wheels, having “put a girdle round the earth.”

Our bicycling experience began at Liverpool. After following many of
the beaten lines of travel in the British Isles we arrived in London,
where we formed our plans for traveling across Europe, Asia, and
America. The most dangerous regions to be traversed in such a journey,
we were told, were western China, the Desert of Gobi, and central
China. Never since the days of Marco Polo had a European traveler
succeeded in crossing the Chinese empire from the west to Peking.

Crossing the Channel, we rode through Normandy to Paris, across the
lowlands of western France to Bordeaux, eastward over the Lesser Alps
to Marseilles, and along the Riviera into Italy. After visiting every
important city on the peninsula, we left Italy at Brindisi on the last
day of 1890 for Corfu, in Greece. Thence we traveled to Patras,
proceeding along the Corinthian Gulf to Athens, where we passed the
winter. We went to Constantinople by vessel in the spring, crossed the
Bosporus in April, and began the long journey described in the
following pages. When we had finally completed our travels in the
Flowery Kingdom, we sailed from Shanghai for Japan. Thence we voyaged
to San Francisco, where we arrived on Christmas night, 1892. Three
weeks later we resumed our bicycles and wheeled by way of Arizona, New
Mexico, and Texas to New York.

During all of this journey we never employed the services of guides
or interpreters. We were compelled, therefore, to learn a little of the
language of every country through which we passed. Our independence in
this regard increased, perhaps, the hardships of the journey, but
certainly contributed much toward the object we sought—a close
acquaintance with strange peoples.

During our travels we took more than two thousand five hundred
photographs, selections from which are reproduced in the illustrations
of this volume.

On a morning early in April the little steamer conveying us across
from Stamboul touched the wharf at Haider Pasha. Amid the rabble of
Greeks, Armenians, Turks, and Italians we trundled our bicycles across
the gang-plank, which for us was the threshold of Asia, the beginning
of an inland journey of seven thousand miles from the Bosporus to the
Pacific. Through the morning fog which enveloped the shipping in the
Golden Horn, the “stars and stripes” at a single masthead were waving
farewell to two American students fresh from college who had nerved
themselves for nearly two years of separation from the comforts of
western civilization.

Our guide to the road to Ismid was the little twelve-year-old son of
an Armenian doctor, whose guests we had been during our sojourn in
Stamboul. He trotted for some distance by our side, and then, pressing
our hands in both of his, he said with childlike sincerity: “I hope God
will take care of you”; for he was possessed with the thought popular
among Armenians, of pillages and massacres by marauding brigands.

The idea of a trip around the world had been conceived by us as a
practical finish to a theoretical education; and the bicycle feature
was adopted merely as a means to that end. On reaching London we had
formed the plan of penetrating the heart of the Asiatic continent,
instead of skirting its more civilized coast-line. For a passport and
other credentials necessary in journeying through Russia and Central
Asia we had been advised to make application to the Czar's
representative on our arrival at Teheran, as we would enter the Russian
dominions from Persia; and to that end the Russian minister in London
had provided us with a letter of introduction. In London the secretary
of the Chinese legation, a Scotchman, had assisted us in mapping out a
possible route across the Celestial empire, although he endeavored,
from the very start, to dissuade us from our purpose. Application had
then been made to the Chinese minister himself for the necessary
passport. The reply we received, though courteous, smacked strongly of
reproof. “Western China,” he said, “is overrun with lawless bands, and
the people themselves are very much averse to foreigners. Your
extraordinary mode of locomotion would subject you to annoyance, if not
to positive danger, at the hands of a people who are naturally curious
and superstitious. However,” he added, after some reflection, “if your
minister makes a request for a passport we will see what can be done.
The most I can do will be to ask for you the protection and assistance
of the officials only; for the people themselves I cannot answer. If
you go into that country you do so at your own risk.” Minister Lincoln
was sitting in his private office when we called the next morning at
the American legation. He listened to the recital of our plans, got
down the huge atlas from his bookcase, and went over with us the route
we proposed to follow. He did not regard the undertaking as feasible,
and apprehended that, if he should give his official assistance, he
would, in a measure, be responsible for the result if it should prove
unhappy. When assured of the consent of our parents, and of our
determination to make the attempt at all hazards, he picked up his pen
and began a letter to the Chinese minister, remarking as he finished
reading it to us, “I would much rather not have written it.” The
documents received from the Chinese minister in response to Mr.
Lincoln's letter proved to be indispensable when, a year and a half
later, we left the last outpost of western civilization and plunged
into the Gobi desert. When we had paid a final visit to the Persian
minister in London, who had asked to see our bicycles and their baggage
equipments, he signified his intention of writing in our behalf to
friends in Teheran; and to that capital, after cycling through Europe,
we were now actually
en route.

Since the opening of the Trans-Bosporus Railway, the wagon-road to
Ismid, and even the Angora military highway beyond, have fallen rapidly
into disrepair. In April they were almost impassable for the wheel, so
that for the greater part of the way we were obliged to take to the
track. Like the railway skirting the Italian Riviera, and the
Patras-Athens line along the Saronic Gulf, this Trans-Bosporus road for
a great distance scarps and tunnels the cliffs along the Gulf of Ismid,
and sometimes runs so close to the water's edge that the puffing of the
kara vapor or “land steamer,” as the Turks call it, is drowned by
the roaring breakers. The country between Scutari and Ismid surpasses
in agricultural advantages any part of Asiatic Turkey through which we
passed. Its fertile soil, and the luxuriant vegetation it supports,
are, as we afterward learned, in striking contrast with the sterile
plateaus and mountains of the interior, many parts of which are as
desolate as the deserts of Arabia. In area, Asia Minor equals France,
but the water-supply of its rivers is only one third.

One of the principal agents in the work of transforming Asia Minor
is the railroad, to which the natives have taken with unusual
readiness. The locomotive is already competing with the hundred and
sixty thousand camels employed in the peninsula caravan-trade. At
Geiveh, the last station on the Trans-Bosporus Railway, where we left
the track to follow the Angora highway, the “ships of the desert” are
beginning to transfer their cargoes to the “land steamer,” instead of
continuing on as in former days to the Bosporus.

[Illustration: THE DONKEY BOYS INSPECT THE “DEVIL'S CARRIAGE.”]

The Trans-Bosporus line, in the year of our visit, was being built
and operated by a German company, under the direct patronage of the
Sultan. We ventured to ask some natives if they thought the Sultan had
sufficient funds to consummate so gigantic a scheme, and they replied,
with the deepest reverence: “God has given the Padishah much property
and power, and certainly he must give him enough money to utilize it.”

A week's cycling from the Bosporus brought us beyond the Allah Dagh
mountains, among the barren, variegated hills that skirt the Angora
plateau. We had already passed through Ismid, the ancient Nicomedia and
capital of Diocletian; and had left behind us the heavily timbered
valley of the Sakaria, upon whose banks the “Freebooter of the
Bithynian hills” settled with his four hundred tents and laid the
foundation of the Ottoman empire. Since leaving Geiveh we had been
attended by a mounted guard, or
zaptieh, who was sometimes
forced upon us by the authorities in their anxiety to carry out the
wishes expressed in the letters of the Grand Vizir. On emerging from
the door of an inn we frequently found this unexpected guard waiting
with a Winchester rifle swung over his shoulder, and a fleet steed
standing by his side. Immediately on our appearance he would swing into
the saddle and charge through the assembled rabble. Away we would go at
a rapid pace down the streets of the town or village, to the utter
amazement of the natives and the great satisfaction of our vainglorious
zaptieh. As long as his horse was fresh, or until we were out of sight
of the village, he would urge us on with cries of “Gellcha-buk” (“Come
on, ride fast"). When a bad piece of road or a steep ascent forced us
to dismount he would bring his horse to a walk, roll a cigarette, and
draw invidious comparisons between our steeds. His tone, however,
changed when we reached a decline or long stretch of reasonably good
road. Then he would cut across country to head us off, or shout after
us at the top of his voice, “Yavash-yavash” (“Slowly, slowly"). On the
whole we found them good-natured and companionable fellows,
notwithstanding their interest in
baksheesh which we were
compelled at last, in self-defense, to fix at one piaster an hour. We
frequently shared with them our frugal, and even scanty meals; and in
turn they assisted us in our purchases and arrangements for lodgings,
for their word, we found, was with the common people an almost
unwritten law. Then, too, they were of great assistance in crossing
streams where the depth would have necessitated the stripping of
garments; although their fiery little steeds sometimes objected to
having an extra rider astride their haunches, and a bicycle across
their shoulders. They seized every opportunity to impress us with the
necessity of being accompanied by a government representative. In some
lonely portion of the road, or in the suggestive stillness of an
evening twilight, our Turkish Don Quixote would sometimes cast
mysterious glances around him, take his Winchester from his shoulder,
and throwing it across the pommel of his saddle, charge ahead to meet
the imaginary enemy. But we were more harmful than harmed, for, despite
our most vigilant care, the bicycles were sometimes the occasion of a
stampede or runaway among the caravans and teams along the highway, and
we frequently assisted in replacing the loads thus upset. On such
occasions our pretentious cavalier would remain on his horse, smoking
his cigarette and smiling disdainfully.

It was in the company of one of these military champions that we
emerged on the morning of April 12 upon the plateau of Angora. On the
spring pasture were feeding several flocks of the famous Angora goats,
and the
karamanli or fat-tailed sheep, tended by the Yurak
shepherds and their half-wild and monstrous collies, whose half-savage
nature fits them to cope with the jackals which infest the country. The
shepherds did not check their sudden onslaught upon us until we were
pressed to very close quarters, and had drawn our revolvers in
self-defense. These Yuraks are the nomadic portion of the Turkish
peasantry. They live in caves or rudely constructed huts, shifting
their habitation at will, or upon the exhaustion of the pasturage.
Their costume is most primitive both in style and material; the
trousers and caps being made of sheepskin and the tunic of plaited
wheat-straw. In contradistinction to the Yuraks the settled inhabitants
of the country are called Turks. That term, however, which means rustic
or clown, is never used by the Turks themselves except in derision or
disdain; they always speak of themselves as “Osmanli.”

[Illustration: AN ANGORA SHEPHERD.]

The great length of the Angora fleece, which sometimes reaches eight
inches, is due solely to the peculiar climate of the locality. The same
goats taken elsewhere have not thriven. Even the Angora dogs and cats
are remarkable for the extraordinary length of their fleecy covering.
On nearing Angora itself, we raced at high speed over the undulating
plateau. Our zaptieh on his jaded horse faded away in the dim distance,
and we saw him no more. This was our last guard for many weeks to come,
as we decided to dispense with an escort that really retarded us. But
on reaching Erzerum, the Vali refused us permission to enter the
district of Alashgerd without a guard, so we were forced to take one.

[Illustration: 1, THE ENGLISH CONSUL AT ANGORA FEEDING HIS PETS;
2,
PASSING A CARAVAN OF CAMELS; 3, PLOWING IN ASIA MINOR.]

We were now on historic ground. To our right, on the Owas, a
tributary of the Sakaria, was the little village of Istanas, where
stood the ancient seat of Midas, the Phrygian king, and where Alexander
the Great cut with his sword the Gordian knot to prove his right to the
rulership of the world. On the plain, over which we were now skimming,
the great Tatar, Timur, fought the memorable battle with Bajazet I.,
which resulted in the capture of the Ottoman conqueror. Since the time
that the title of Asia applied to the small coast-province of Lydia,
this country has been the theater for the grandest events in human
history.

[Illustration: A CONTRAST.]

The old mud-houses of modern Angora, as we rolled into the city,
contrasted strongly with the cyclopean walls of its ancient fortress.
After two days in Angora we diverged from the direct route to Sivas
through Yüzgat, so as to visit the city of Kaisarieh. Through the
efforts of the progressive Vali at Angora, a macadamized road was in
the course of construction to this point, a part of which—to the town
of Kirshehr—was already completed. Although surrounded by unusual
fertility and luxuriance for an interior town, the low mud-houses and
treeless streets give Kirshehr that same thirsty and painfully uniform
appearance which characterizes every village or city in Asiatic Turkey.
The mud buildings of Babylon, and not the marble edifices of Nineveh,
have served as models for the Turkish architect. We have seen the
Turks, when making the mud-straw bricks used in house-building, scratch
dirt for the purpose from between the marble slabs and boulders that
lay in profusion over the ground. A few of the government buildings and
some of the larger private residences are improved by a coat of
whitewash, and now and then the warm spring showers bring out on the
mud roofs a relieving verdure, that frequently serves as pasture for
the family goat. Everything is low and contracted, especially the
doorways. When a foreigner bumps his head, and demands the reason for
such stupid architecture, he is met with that decisive answer,
“Adet”—custom, the most powerful of all influences in Turkey and the
East.

[Illustration: A TURKISH FLOUR-MILL.]

Our entry into Kirshehr was typical of our reception everywhere.
When we were seen approaching, several horsemen came out to get a first
look at our strange horses. They challenged us to a race, and set a
spanking pace down into the streets of the town. Before we reached the
khan, or inn, we were obliged to dismount. “Bin! bin!” (“Ride!
ride!”) went up in a shout. “Nimkin deyil” (“It is impossible"), we
explained, in such a jam; and the crowd opened up three or four feet
ahead of us. “Bin bocale” (“Ride, so that we can see"), they shouted
again; and some of them rushed up to hold our steeds for us to mount.
With the greatest difficulty we impressed upon our persistent
assistants that they could not help us. By the time we reached the khan
the crowd had become almost a mob, pushing and tumbling over one
another, and yelling to every one in sight that “the devil's carts have
come.” The inn-keeper came out, and we had to assure him that the mob
was actuated only by curiosity. As soon as the bicycles were over the
threshold, the doors were bolted and braced. The crowds swarmed to the
windows. While the khanji prepared coffee we sat down to watch the
amusing by-play and repartee going on around us. Those who by virtue of
their friendship with the khanji were admitted to the room with us
began a tirade against the boyish curiosity of their less fortunate
brethren on the outside. Their own curiosity assumed tangible shape.
Our clothing, and even our hair and faces, were critically examined.
When we attempted to jot down the day's events in our note-books they
crowded closer than ever. Our fountain-pen was an additional puzzle to
them. It was passed around, and explained and commented on at length.

Our camera was a “mysterious” black box. Some said it was a
telescope, about which they had only a vague idea; others, that it was
a box containing our money. But our map of Asiatic Turkey was to them
the most curious thing of all. They spread it on the floor, and hovered
over it, while we pointed to the towns and cities. How could we tell
where the places were until we had been there? How did we even know
their names? It was wonderful—wonderful! We traced for them our own
journey, where we had been and where we were going, and then endeavored
to show them how, by starting from our homes and continuing always in
an easterly direction, we could at last reach our starting-point from
the west. The more intelligent of them grasped the idea. “Around the
world,” they repeated again and again, with a mystified expression.

Relief came at last, in the person of a messenger from Osman Beg,
the inspector-general of agriculture of the Angora vilayet, bearing an
invitation to supper. He stated that he had already heard of our
undertaking through the Constantinople press, and desired to make our
acquaintance. His note, which was written in French, showed him to be a
man of European education; and on shaking hands with him a half-hour
later, we found him to be a man of European origin—an Albanian Greek,
and a cousin of the Vali at Angora. He said a report had gone out that
two devils were passing through the country. The dinner was one of
those incongruous Turkish mixtures of sweet and sour, which was by no
means relieved by the harrowing Turkish music which our host ground out
from an antiquated hand-organ.

[Illustration: MILL IN ASIA MINOR.]

Although it was late when we returned to the khan, we found
everybody still up. The room in which we were to sleep (there was only
one room) was filled with a crowd of loiterers, and tobacco smoke. Some
were playing games similar to our chess and backgammon, while others
were looking on, and smoking the gurgling narghile, or water-pipe. The
bicycles had been put away under lock and key, and the crowd gradually
dispersed. We lay down in our clothes, and tried to lose consciousness;
but the Turkish supper, the tobacco smoke, and the noise of the
quarreling gamesters, put sleep out of the question. At midnight the
sudden boom of a cannon reminded us that we were in the midst of the
Turkish Ramadan. The sound of tramping feet, the beating of a bass
drum, and the whining tones of a Turkish bagpipe, came over the
midnight air. Nearer it came, and louder grew the sound, till it
reached the inn door, where it remained for some time. The fast of
Ramadan commemorates the revelation of the Koran to the prophet
Mohammed. It lasts through the four phases of the moon. From daylight,
or, as the Koran reads, “from the time you can distinguish a white
thread from a black one,” no good Mussulman will eat, drink, or smoke.
At midnight the mosques are illuminated, and bands of music go about
the streets all night, making a tremendous uproar. One cannon is fired
at dusk, to announce the time to break the fast by eating supper,
another at midnight to arouse the people for the preparation of
breakfast, and still another at daylight as a signal for resuming the
fast. This, of course, is very hard on the poor man who has to work
during the day. As a precaution against oversleeping, a watchman goes
about just before daybreak, and makes a rousing clatter at the gate of
every Mussulman's house to warn him that if he wants anything to eat he
must get it instanter. Our roommates evidently intended to make an “all
night” of it, for they forthwith commenced the preparation of their
morning meal. How it was despatched we do not know, for we fell asleep,
and were only awakened by the muezzin on a neighboring minaret, calling
to morning prayer.

[Illustration: GIPSIES OF ASIA MINOR.]

Our morning ablutions were usually made
à la Turk: by having
water poured upon the hands from a spouted vessel. Cleanliness is, with
the Turk, perhaps, more than ourselves, the next thing to godliness.
But his ideas are based upon a very different theory. Although he uses
no soap for washing either his person or his clothes, yet he considers
himself much cleaner than the giaour, for the reason that he uses
running water exclusively, never allowing the same particles to touch
him the second time. A Turk believes that all water is purified after
running six feet. As a test of his faith we have often seen him lading
up drinking-water from a stream where the women were washing clothes
just a few yards above.

[Illustration: SCENE AT A GREEK INN.]

As all cooking and eating had stopped at the sound of the morning
cannon, we found great difficulty in gathering together even a cold
breakfast of
ekmek,
yaourt, and raisins. Ekmek is a
cooked bran-flour paste, which has the thinness, consistency, and
almost the taste of blotting-paper. This is the Turkish peasant's staff
of life. He carries it with him everywhere; so did we. As it was made
in huge circular sheets, we would often punch a hole in the middle, and
slip it up over our arms. This we found the handiest and most
serviceable mode of transportation, being handy to eat without removing
our hands from the handle-bars, and also answering the purpose of sails
in case of a favoring wind. Yaourt, another almost universal food, is
milk curdled with rennet. This, as well as all foods that are not
liquid, they scoop up with a roll of ekmek, a part of the scoop being
taken with every mouthful. Raisins here, as well as in many other parts
of the country, are very cheap. We paid two piasters (about nine cents)
for an
oche (two and a half pounds), but we soon made the
discovery that a Turkish oche contained a great many “stones”—which of
course was purely accidental. Eggs, also, we found exceedingly cheap.
On one occasion, twenty-five were set before us, in response to our
call for eggs to the value of one piaster—four and a half cents. In
Asiatic Turkey we had some extraordinary dishes served to us, including
daintily prepared leeches. But the worst mixture, perhaps, was the
“Bairam soup,” which contains over a dozen ingredients, including peas,
prunes, walnuts, cherries, dates, white and black beans, apricots,
cracked wheat, raisins, etc.—all mixed in cold water. Bairam is the
period of feasting after the Ramadan fast.

[Illustration: EATING KAISERICHEN (EKMEK) OR BREAD.]

On preparing to leave Kirshehr after our frugal breakfast we found
that Turkish curiosity had extended even to the contents of our
baggage, which fitted in the frames of the machines. There was nothing
missing, however: and we did not lose so much as a button during our
sojourn among them. Thieving is not one of their faults, but they take
much latitude in helping themselves. Many a time an inn-keeper would
“help us out” by disposing of one third of a chicken that we had paid
him a high price to prepare.

When we were ready to start the chief of police cleared a riding
space through the streets, which for an hour had been filled with
people. As we passed among them they shouted “Oorooglar olsun” (“May
good fortune attend you"). “Inshallah” (“If it please God"), we
replied, and waved our helmets in acknowledgment.

[Illustration: GRINDING WHEAT.]

[Illustration: A TURKISH (HAMAAL) OR CARRIER.]

At the village of Topakle, on the following night, our reception was
not so innocent and good-natured. It was already dusk when we reached
the outskirts of the village, where we were at once spied by a young
man who was driving in the lowing herd. The alarm was given, and the
people swarmed like so many rats from a corn-bin. We could see from
their costume and features that they were not pure-blooded Turks. We
asked if we could get food and lodging, to which they replied, “Evet,
evet” (“Yes, yes"), but when we asked them where, they simply pointed
ahead, and shouted, “Bin, bin!” We did not “bin” this time, because it
was too dark, and the streets were bad. We walked, or rather were
pushed along by the impatient rabble, and almost deafened by their
shouts of “Bin, bin!” At the end of the village we repeated our
question of where. Again they pointed ahead, and shouted, “Bin!”
Finally an old man led us to what seemed to be a private residence,
where we had to drag our bicycles up a dark narrow stairway to the
second story. The crowd soon filled the room to suffocation, and were
not disposed to heed our request to be left alone. One stalwart youth
showed such a spirit of opposition that we were obliged to eject him
upon a crowded stairway, causing the mob to go down like a row of
tenpins. Then the owner of the house came in, and in an agitated manner
declared he could not allow us to remain in his house overnight. Our
reappearance caused a jeering shout to go up from the crowd; but no
violence was attempted beyond the catching hold of the rear wheel when
our backs were turned, and the throwing of clods of earth. They
followed us,
en masse, to the edge of the village, and there
stopped short, to watch us till we disappeared in the darkness. The
nights at this high altitude were chilly. We had no blankets, and not
enough clothing to warrant a camp among the rocks. There was not a twig
on the whole plateau with which to build a fire. We were alone,
however, and that was rest in itself. After walking an hour, perhaps,
we saw a light gleaming from a group of mudhuts a short distance off
the road. From the numerous flocks around it, we took it to be a
shepherds' village. Everything was quiet except the restless sheep,
whose silky fleece glistened in the light of the rising moon. Supper
was not yet over, for we caught a whiff of its savory odor. Leaving our
wheels outside, we entered the first door we came to, and, following
along a narrow passageway, emerged into a room where four rather
rough-looking shepherds were ladling the soup from a huge bowl in their
midst. Before they were aware of our presence, we uttered the usual
salutation “Sabala khayr olsun.” This startled some little boys who
were playing in the corner, who yelled, and ran into the haremlük, or
women's apartment. This brought to the door the female occupants, who
also uttered a shriek, and sunk back as if in a swoon. It was evident
that the visits of giaours to this place had been few and far between.
The shepherds returned our salutation with some hesitation, while their
ladles dropped into the soup, and their gaze became fixed on our huge
helmets, our dogskin top-coats, and abbreviated nether garments. The
women by this time had sufficiently recovered from their nervous shock
to give scope to their usual curiosity through the cracks in the
partition. Confidence now being inspired by our own composure, we were
invited to sit down and participate in the evening meal. Although it
was only a gruel of sour milk and rice, we managed to make a meal off
it. Meantime the wheels had been discovered by some passing neighbor.
The news was spread throughout the village, and soon an excited throng
came in with our bicycles borne upon the shoulders of two powerful
Turks. Again we were besieged with entreaties to ride, and, hoping that
this would gain for us a comfortable night's rest, we yielded, and,
amid peals of laughter from a crowd of Turkish peasants, gave an
exhibition in the moonlight. Our only reward, when we returned to our
quarters, was two greasy pillows and a filthy carpet for a coverlet.
But the much needed rest we did not secure, for the suspicions aroused
by the first glance at our bed-cover proved to be well grounded.

[Illustration: TURKISH WOMEN GOING TO PRAYERS IN KAISARIEH.]

About noon on April 20, our road turned abruptly into the broad
caravan trail that runs between Smyrna and Kaisarieh, about ten miles
west of the latter city. A long caravan of camels was moving
majestically up the road, headed by a little donkey, which the
devedejee (camel-driver) was riding with his feet dangling almost
to the ground. That proverbially stubborn creature moved not a muscle
until we came alongside, when all at once he gave one of his
characteristic side lurches, and precipitated the rider to the ground.
The first camel, with a protesting grunt, began to sidle off, and the
broadside movement continued down the line till the whole caravan stood
at an angle of about forty-five degrees to the road. The camel of Asia
Minor does not share that antipathy for the equine species which is so
general among their Asiatic cousins; but steel horses were more than
even they could endure.

[Illustration: THE “FLIRTING TOWER” IN SIVAS.]

A sudden turn in the road now brought us in sight of old Arjish
Dagh, which towers 13,000 feet above the city of Kaisarieh, and whose
head and shoulders were covered with snow. Native tradition tells us
that against this lofty summit the ark of Noah struck in the rising
flood; and for this reason Noah cursed it, and prayed that it might
ever be covered with snow. It was in connection with this very mountain
that we first conceived the idea of making the ascent of Ararat. Here
and there, on some of the most prominent peaks, we could distinguish
little mounds of earth, the ruined watch-towers of the prehistoric
Hittites.

[Illustration: HOUSE OF THE AMERICAN CONSUL IN SIVAS.]

Kaisarieh (ancient Cæsarea) is filled with the ruins and the
monuments of the fourteenth-century Seljuks. Arrowheads and other
relics are every day unearthed there, to serve as toys for the street
urchins. Since the development of steam-communication around the coast,
it is no longer the caravan center that it used to be; but even now its
charshi, or inclosed bazaars, are among the finest in Turkey, being
far superior in appearance to those of Constantinople. These
charshi
are nothing more than narrow streets, inclosed by brick arches, and
lined on either side with booths. It was through one of these that our
only route to the khan lay—and yet we felt that in such contracted
quarters, and in such an excited mob as had gathered around us,
disaster was sure to follow. Our only salvation was to keep ahead of
the jam, and get through as soon as possible. We started on the spurt;
and the race began. The unsuspecting merchants and their customers were
suddenly distracted from their thoughts of gain as we whirled by; the
crowd close behind sweeping everything before it. The falling of
barrels and boxes, the rattling of tin cans, the crashing of crockery,
the howling of the vagrant dogs that were trampled under foot, only
added to the general tumult.

Through the courtesy of Mr. Peet of the American Bible House at
Constantinople, we were provided with letters of introduction to the
missionaries at Kaisarieh, as well as elsewhere along our route through
Asiatic Turkey, and upon them we also had drafts to the amount of our
deposit made at the Bible House before starting. Besides, we owed much
to the hospitality and kindness of these people. The most striking
feature of the missionary work at Kaisarieh is the education of the
Armenian women, whose social position seems to be even more degraded
than that of their Turkish sisters. With the native Armenians, as with
the Turks, fleshiness adds much to the price of a wife. The wife of a
missionary is to them an object both of wonderment and contempt. As she
walks along the street, they will whisper to one another: “There goes a
woman who knows all her husband's business; and who can manage just as
well as himself.” This will generally be followed in an undertone by
the expression, “Madana satana,” which means, in common parlance, “a
female devil.” At first it was a struggle to overcome this ignorant
prejudice, and to get girls to come to the school free of charge; now
it is hard to find room for them even when they are asked to pay for
their tuition.

The costume of the Armenian woman is generally of some
bright-colored cloth, prettily trimmed. Her coiffure, always elaborate,
sometimes includes a string of gold coins, encircling the head, or
strung down the plait. A silver belt incloses the waist, and a necklace
of coins calls attention to her pretty neck. When washing clothes by
the stream, they frequently show a gold ring encircling an ankle.

In the simplicity of their costumes, as well as in the fact that
they do not expose the face, the Turkish women stand in strong contrast
to the Armenian. Baggy trousers
à la Bloomer, a loose robe skirt
opening at the sides, and a voluminous shawl-like girdle around the
waist and body, constitute the main features of the Turkish indoor
costume. On the street a shroud-like robe called yashmak, usually
white, but sometimes crimson, purple, or black, covers them from head
to foot. When we would meet a bevy of these creatures on the road in
the dusk of evening, their white, fluttering garments would give them
the appearance of winged celestials. The Turkish women are generally
timorous of men, and especially so of foreigners. Those of the rural
districts, however, are not so shy as their city cousins. We frequently
met them at work in groups about the villages or in the open fields,
and would sometimes ask for a drink of water. If they were a party of
maidens, as was often the case, they would draw back and hide behind
one another. We would offer one of them a ride on our “very nice
horses.” This would cause a general giggle among her companions, and a
drawing of the yashmak closer about the neck and face.

[Illustration: ARABS CONVERSING WITH A TURK.]

The road scenes in the interior provinces are but little varied. One
of the most characteristic features of the Anatolian landscape are the
storks, which come in flocks of thousands from their winter quarters in
Egypt and build summer nests, unmolested, on the village housetops.
These, like the crows, magpies, and swallows, prove valuable allies to
the husbandmen in their war against the locust. A still more
serviceable friend in this direction is the
smarmar, a pink
thrush with black wings. Besides the various caravan trains of camels,
donkeys, horses, and mules, the road is frequently dotted with
ox-carts, run on solid wooden wheels without tires, and drawn by that
peculiar bovine species, the buffalo. With their distended necks,
elevated snouts, and hog-like bristles, these animals present an ugly
appearance, especially when wallowing in mud puddles.

Now and then in the villages we passed by a primitive flour-mill
moved by a small stream playing upon a horizontal wheel beneath the
floor; or, more primitive still, by a blindfolded donkey plodding
ceaselessly around in his circular path. In the streets we frequently
encountered boys and old men gathering manure for their winter fuel;
and now and then a cripple or invalid would accost us as “Hakim”
(“Doctor"), for the medical work of the missionaries has given these
simple-minded folk the impression that all foreigners are physicians.
Coming up and extending a hand for us to feel the pulse they would ask
us to do something for the disease, which we could see was rapidly
carrying them to the grave.

[Illustration: A KADI EXPOUNDING THE KORAN.]

Our first view of Sivas was obtained from the top of Mount Yildiz,
on which still stands the ruined castle of Mithridates, the Pontine
monarch, whom Lucullus many times defeated, but never conquered. From
this point we made a very rapid descent, crossed the Kizil Irmak for
the third time by an old ruined bridge, and half an hour later saw the
“stars and stripes” flying above the U. S. consulate. In the society of
our representative, Mr. Henry M. Jewett, we were destined to spend
several weeks; for a day or two after our arrival, one of us was taken
with a slight attack of typhoid fever, supposed to have been contracted
by drinking from the roadside streams. No better place could have been
chosen for such a mishap; for recovery was speedy in such comfortable
quarters, under the care of the missionary ladies.

The comparative size and prosperity of Sivas, in the midst of rather
barren surroundings, are explained by the fact that it lies at the
converging point of the chief caravan routes between the Euxine,
Euphrates, and Mediterranean. Besides being the capital of Rumili, the
former Seljuk province of Cappadocia, it is the place of residence for
a French and American consular representative, and an agent of the
Russian government for the collection of the war indemnity, stipulated
in the treaty of '78. The dignity of office is here upheld with
something of the pomp and splendor of the East, even by the
representative of democratic America. In our tours with Mr. Jewett we
were escorted at the head by a Circassian
cavass (Turkish
police), clothed in a long black coat, with a huge dagger dangling from
a belt of cartridges. Another native cavass, with a broadsword dragging
at his side, usually brought up the rear. At night he was the one to
carry the huge lantern, which, according to the number of candles, is
the insignia of rank. “I must give the Turks what they want,” said the
consul, with a twinkle in his eye—“form and red tape. I would not be a
consul in their eyes, if I didn't.” To illustrate the formality of
Turkish etiquette he told this story: “A Turk was once engaged in
saving furniture from his burning home, when he noticed that a
bystander was rolling a cigarette. He immediately stopped in his hurry,
struck a match, and offered a light.”

[Illustration: EVENING HALT IN A VILLAGE.]

The most flagrant example of Turkish formality that came to our
notice was the following address on an official document to the Sultan:

“The Arbiter; the Absolute; the Soul and Body of the Universe;
the
Father of all the sovereigns of the earth; His Excellency, the
Eagle Monarch; the Cause of the never-changing order of things;
the Source of all honor; the Son of the Sultan of Sultans,
under
whose feet we are dust, whose awful shadow protects us; Abdul
Hamid II., Son of Abdul Medjid, whose residence is in Paradise;
our glorious Lord, to whose sacred body be given health, and
strength, and endless days; whom Allah keeps in his palace, and
on
his throne with joy and glory, forever. Amen.”

[Illustration: PRIMITIVE WEAVING.]

This is not the flattery of a cringing subordinate, for the same
spirit is revealed in an address by the Sultan himself to his Grand
Vizir:

“Most honored Vizir; Maintainer of the good order of the World;
Director of public affairs with wisdom and judgment;
Accomplisher
of the important transactions of mankind with intelligence and
good sense; Consolidator of the edifice of Empire and of Glory;
endowed by the Most High with abundant gifts; and 'Monshir,' at
this time, of my Gate of Felicity; my Vizir Mehmed Pasha, may
God
be pleased to preserve him long in exalted dignity.”

Though the Turks cannot be called lazy, yet they like to take their
time. Patience, they say, belongs to God; hurry, to the devil. Nowhere
is this so well illustrated as in the manner of shopping in Turkey.
This was brought particularly to our notice when we visited the Sivas
bazaars to examine some inlaid silverware, for which the place is
celebrated. The customer stands in the street inspecting the articles
on exhibition; the merchant sits on his heels on the booth floor. If
the customer is of some position in life, he climbs up and sits down on
a level with the merchant. If he is a foreigner, the merchant is quite
deferential. A merchant is not a merchant at all, but a host
entertaining a guest. Coffee is served; then a cigarette rolled up and
handed to the “guest,” while the various social and other local topics
are freely discussed. After coffee and smoking the question of purchase
is gradually approached; not abruptly, as that would involve a loss of
dignity; but circumspectly, as if the buying of anything were a mere
afterthought. Maybe, after half an hour, the customer has indicated
what he wants, and after discussing the quality of the goods, the
customer asks the price in an off-hand way, as though he were not
particularly interested. The merchant replies, “Oh, whatever your
highness pleases,” or, “I shall be proud if your highness will do me
the honor to accept it as a gift.” This means nothing whatever, and is
merely the introduction to the haggling which is sure to follow. The
seller, with silken manners and brazen countenance, will always name a
price four times as large as it should be. Then the real business
begins. The buyer offers one half or one fourth of what he finally
expects to pay; and a war of words, in a blustering tone, leads up to
the close of this every-day farce.

The superstition of the Turks is nowhere so apparent as in their
fear of the “evil eye.” Jugs placed around the edge of the roof, or an
old shoe filled with garlic and blue beets (blue glass balls or rings)
are a sure guard against this illusion. Whenever a pretty child is
playing upon the street the passers-by will say: “Oh, what an ugly
child!” for fear of inciting the evil spirit against its beauty. The
peasant classes in Turkey are of course the most superstitious because
they are the most ignorant. They have no education whatever, and can
neither read nor write. Stamboul is the only great city of which they
know. Paris is a term signifying the whole outside world. An American
missionary was once asked: “In what part of Paris is America?” Yet it
can be said that they are generally honest, and always patient. They
earn from about six to eight cents a day. This will furnish them with
ekmek and pilaff, and that is all they expect. They eat meat only on
feast-days, and then only mutton. The tax-gatherer is their only
grievance; they look upon him as a necessary evil. They have no idea of
being ground down under the oppressor's iron heel. Yet they are happy
because they are contented, and have no envy. The poorer, the more
ignorant, a Turk is, the better he seems to be. As he gets money and
power, and becomes “contaminated” by western civilization, he
deteriorates. A resident of twenty years' experience said: “In the
lowest classes I have sometimes found truth, honesty, and gratitude; in
the middle classes, seldom; in the highest, never.” The corruptibility
of the Turkish official is almost proverbial; but such is to be
expected in the land where “the public treasury” is regarded as a
“sea,” and “who does not drink of it, as a pig.” Peculation and
malversation are fully expected in the public official. They are
necessary evils—
adet (custom) has made them so. Offices are
sold to the highest bidder. The Turkish official is one of the politest
and most agreeable of men. He is profuse in his compliments, but he has
no conscience as to bribes, and little regard for virtue as its own
reward. We are glad to be able to record a brilliant, though perhaps
theoretical, exception to this general rule. At Koch-Hissar, on our way
from Sivas to Kara Hissar, a delay was caused by a rather serious break
in one of our bicycles. In the interval we were the invited guests of a
district kadi, a venerable-looking and genial old gentleman whose
acquaintance we had made in an official visit on the previous day, as
he was then the acting
caimacam (mayor). His house was situated
in a neighboring valley in the shadow of a towering bluff. We were
ushered into the
selamlük, or guest apartment, in company with
an Armenian friend who had been educated as a doctor in America, and
who had consented to act as interpreter for the occasion.

The kadi entered with a smile on his countenance, and made the usual
picturesque form of salutation by describing the figure 3 with his
right hand from the floor to his forehead. Perhaps it was because he
wanted to be polite that he said he had enjoyed our company on the
previous day, and had determined, if possible, to have a more extended
conversation. With the usual coffee and cigarettes, the kadi became
informal and chatty. He was evidently a firm believer in
predestination, as he remarked that God had foreordained our trip to
that country, even the food we were to eat, and the invention of the
extraordinary “cart” on which we were to ride. The idea of such a
journey, in such a peculiar way, was not to be accredited to the
ingenuity of man. There was a purpose in it all. When we ventured to
thank him for his hospitality toward two strangers, and even
foreigners, he said that this world occupied so small a space in God's
dominion, that we could well afford to be brothers, one to another, in
spite of our individual beliefs and opinions. “We may have different
religious beliefs,” said he, “but we all belong to the same great
father of humanity; just as children of different complexions,
dispositions, and intellects may belong to one common parent. We should
exercise reason always, and have charity for other people's opinions.”

From charity the conversation naturally turned to justice. We were
much interested in his opinion on this subject, as that of a Turkish
judge, and rather high official. “Justice,” said he, “should be
administered to the humblest person; though a king should be the
offending party, all alike must yield to the sacred law of justice. We
must account to God for our acts, and not to men.”

The regular route from Sivas to Erzerum passes through Erzinjan.
From this, however, we diverged at Zara, in order to visit the city of
Kara Hissar, and the neighboring Lidjissy mines, which had been
pioneered by the Genoese explorers, and were now being worked by a
party of Englishmen. This divergence on to unbeaten paths was made at a
very inopportune season; for the rainy spell set in, which lasted, with
scarcely any intermission, for over a fortnight. At the base of Kosse
Dagh, which stands upon the watershed between the two largest rivers of
Asia Minor, the Kizil Irmak and Yeshil Irmak, our road was blocked by a
mountain freshet, which at its height washed everything before it. We
spent a day and night on its bank, in a primitive flour-mill, which was
so far removed from domestic life that we had to send three miles up in
the mountains to get something to eat. The Yeshil Irmak, which we
crossed just before reaching Kara Hissar, was above our shoulders as we
waded through, holding our bicycles and baggage over our heads; while
the swift current rolled the small boulders against us, and almost
knocked us off our feet. There were no bridges in this part of the
country. With horses and wagons the rivers were usually fordable; and
what more would you want? With the Turk, as with all Asiatics, it is
not a question of what is better, but what will do. Long before we
reached a stream, the inhabitants of a certain town or village would
gather round, and with troubled countenances say, “Christian
gentlemen—there is no bridge,” pointing to the river beyond, and
graphically describing that it was over our horses' heads. That would
settle it, they thought; it never occurred to them that a “Christian
gentleman” could take off his clothes and wade. Sometimes, as we walked
along in the mud, the wheels of our bicycles would become so clogged
that we could not even push them before us. In such a case we would
take the nearest shelter, whatever it might be. The night before
reaching Kara Hissar, we entered an abandoned stable, from which
everything had fled except the fleas. Another night was spent in the
pine-forests just on the border between Asia Minor and Armenia, which
were said to be the haunts of the border robbers. Our surroundings
could not be relieved by a fire for fear of attracting their attention.

[Illustration: A FERRY IN ASIA MINOR.]

When at last we reached the Trebizond-Erzerum highway at Baiboot,
the contrast was so great that the scaling of Kop Dagh, on its
comparatively smooth surface, was a mere breakfast spell. From here we
looked down for the first time into the valley of the historic
Euphrates, and a few hours later we were skimming over its bottom lands
toward the embattled heights of Erzerum.

As we neared the city, some Turkish peasants in the fields caught
sight of us, and shouted to their companions: “Russians! Russians!
There they are! Two of them!” This was not the first time we had been
taken for the subjects of the Czar; the whole country seemed to be in
dread of them. Erzerum is the capital of that district which Russia
will no doubt demand, if the stipulated war indemnity is not paid.

The entrance into the city was made to twist and turn among the
ramparts, so as to avoid a rush in case of an attack. But this was no
proof against a surprise in the case of the noiseless wheel. In we
dashed with a roaring wind, past the affrighted guards, and were fifty
yards away before they could collect their scattered senses. Then
suddenly it dawned upon them that we were human beings, and foreigners
besides—perhaps even the dreaded Russian spies. They took after us at
full speed, but it was too late. Before they reached us we were in the
house of the commandant pasha, the military governor, to whom we had a
letter of introduction from our consul at Sivas. That gentleman we
found extremely good-natured; he laughed heartily at our escapade with
the guards. Nothing would do but we must visit the Vali, the civil
governor, who was also a pasha of considerable reputation and
influence.

[Illustration: A VILLAGE SCENE.]

We had intended, but not so soon, to pay an official visit to the
Vali to present our letter from the Grand Vizir, and to ask his
permission to proceed to Bayazid, whence we had planned to attempt the
ascent of Mount Ararat, an experience which will be described in the
next chapter. A few days before, we heard, a similar application had
been made by an English traveler from Bagdad, but owing to certain
suspicions the permission was refused. It was with no little concern,
therefore, that we approached the Vali's private office in company with
his French interpreter. Circumstances augured ill at the very start.
The Vali was evidently in a bad humor, for we overheard him storming in
a high key at some one in the room with him. As we passed under the
heavy matted curtains the two attendants who were holding them up cast
a rather horrified glance at our dusty shoes and unconventional
costume. The Vali was sitting in a large arm-chair in front of a very
small desk, placed at the far end of a vacant-looking room. After the
usual salaams, he motioned to a seat on the divan, and proceeded at
once to examine our credentials while we sipped at our coffee, and
whiffed the small cigarettes which were immediately served. This
furnished the Vali an opportunity to regain his usual composure. He was
evidently an autocrat of the severest type; if we pleased him, it would
be all right; if we did not, it would be all wrong. We showed him
everything we had, from our Chinese passport to the little photographic
camera, and related some of the most amusing incidents of our journey
through his country. From the numerous questions he asked we felt
certain of his genuine interest, and were more than pleased to see an
occasional broad smile on his countenance. “Well,” said he, as we rose
to take leave, “your passports will be ready any time after to-morrow;
in the mean time I shall be pleased to have your horses quartered and
fed at government expense.” This was a big joke for a Turk, and assured
us of his good-will.

A bicycle exhibition which the Vali had requested was given the
morning of our departure for Bayazid, on a level stretch of road just
outside the city. Several missionaries and members of the consulates
had gone out in carriages, and formed a little group by themselves. We
rode up with the “stars and stripes” and “star and crescent” fluttering
side by side from the handle-bars. It was always our custom, especially
on diplomatic occasions, to have a little flag of the country
associated with that of our own. This little arrangement evoked a smile
from the Vali, who, when the exhibition was finished, stepped forward
and said, “I am satisfied, I am pleased.” His richly caparisoned white
charger was now brought up. Leaping into the saddle, he waved us
good-by, and moved away with his suite toward the city. We ourselves
remained for a few moments to bid good-by to our hospitable friends,
and then, once more, continued our journey toward the east.

According to tradition, Mount Ararat is the scene of two of the most
important events in the history of the human race. In the sacred land
of Eden, which Armenian legend places at its base, the first of human
life was born; and on its solitary peak the last of human life was
saved from an all-destroying flood. The remarkable geographical
position of this mountain seems to justify the Armenian view that it is
the center of the world. It is on the longest line drawn through the
Old World from the Cape of Good Hope to Bering Strait; it is also on
the line of the great deserts and inland seas stretching from Gibraltar
to Lake Baikal in Siberia—a line of continuous depressions; it is
equidistant from the Black and Caspian Seas and the Mesopotamian plain,
which three depressions are now watered by three distinct river-systems
emanating from Ararat's immediate vicinity. No other region has seen or
heard so much of the story of mankind. In its grim presence empires
have come and gone; cities have risen and fallen; human life has soared
up on the wings of hope, and dashed against the rocks of despair.

To the eye Ararat presents a gently inclined slope of sand and ashes
rising into a belt of green, another zone of black volcanic rocks
streaked with snow-beds, and then a glittering crest of silver. From
the burning desert at its base to the icy pinnacle above, it rises
through a vertical distance of 13,000 feet. There are but few peaks in
the world that rise so high (17,250 feet above sea-level) from so low a
plain (2000 feet on the Russian, and 4000 feet on the Turkish, side),
and which, therefore, present so grand a spectacle. Unlike many of the
world's mountains, it stands alone. Little Ararat (12,840 feet above
sea-level), and the other still smaller heights that dot the plain,
only serve as a standard by which to measure Ararat's immensity and
grandeur.

Little Ararat is the meeting-point, or corner-stone, of three great
empires. On its conical peak converge the dominions of the Czar, the
Sultan, and the Shah. The Russian border-line runs from Little Ararat
along the high ridge which separates it from Great Ararat, through the
peak of the latter, and onward a short distance to the northwest, then
turns sharply to the west. On the Sardarbulakh pass, between Great and
Little Ararat, is stationed a handful of Russian Cossacks to remind
lawless tribes of the guardianship of the “White Sultan.”

The two Ararats together form an elliptical mass, about twenty-five
miles in length, running northwest and southeast, and about half that
in width. Out of this massive base rise the two Ararat peaks, their
bases being contiguous up to 8800 feet and their tops about seven miles
apart. Little Ararat is an almost perfect truncated cone, while Great
Ararat is more of a broad-shouldered dome supported by strong,
rough-ribbed buttresses. The isolated position of Ararat, its structure
of igneous rocks, the presence of small craters and immense volcanic
fissures on its slopes, and the scoriæ and ashes on the surrounding
plain, establish beyond a doubt its volcanic origin. But according to
the upheaval theory of the eminent geologist, Hermann Abich, who was
among the few to make the ascent of the mountain, there never was a
great central crater in either Great or Little Ararat. Certain it is
that no craters or signs of craters now exist on the summit of either
mountain. But Mr. James Bryce, who made the last ascent, in 1876, seems
to think that there is no sufficient reason why craters could not have
previously existed, and been filled up by their own irruptions. There
is no record of any irruption in historical times. The only thing
approaching it was the earthquake which shook the mountain in 1840,
accompanied by subterranean rumblings, and destructive blasts of wind.
The Tatar village of Arghuri and a Kurdish encampment on the northeast
slope were entirely destroyed by the precipitated rocks. Not a man was
left to tell the story. Mr. Bryce and others have spoken of the
astonishing height of the snow-line on Mount Ararat, which is placed at
14,000 feet; while in the Alps it is only about 9000 feet, and in the
Caucasus on an average 11,000 feet, although they lie in a very little
higher latitude. They assign, as a reason for this, the exceptionally
dry region in which Ararat is situated. Mr. Bryce ascended the mountain
on September 12, when the snow-line was at its very highest, the first
large snow-bed he encountered being at 12,000 feet. Our own ascent
being made as early as July 4,—in fact, the earliest ever
recorded,—we found some snow as low as 8000 feet, and large beds at
10,500 feet. The top of Little Ararat was still at that time streaked
with snow, but not covered. With so many extensive snow-beds, one would
naturally expect to find copious brooks and streams flowing down the
mountain into the plain; but owing to the porous and dry nature of the
soil, the water is entirely lost before reaching the base of the
mountain. Even as early as July we saw no stream below 6000 feet, and
even above this height the mountain freshets frequently flowed far
beneath the surface under the loosely packed rocks, bidding defiance to
our efforts to reach them. Notwithstanding the scarcity of
snow-freshets, there is a middle zone on Mount Ararat, extending from
about 5000 feet to 9000 feet elevation, which is covered with good
pasturage, kept green by heavy dews and frequent showers. The hot air
begins to rise from the desert plain as the morning sun peeps over the
horizon, and continues through the day; this warm current, striking
against the snow-covered summit, is condensed into clouds and moisture.
In consequence, the top of Ararat is usually—during the summer months,
at least—obscured by clouds from some time after dawn until sunset. On
the last day of our ascent, however, we were particularly fortunate in
having a clear summit until 1:15 in the afternoon.

Among the crags of the upper slope are found only a few specimens of
the wild goat and sheep, and, lower down, the fox, wolf, and lynx. The
bird and insect life is very scanty, but lizards and scorpions,
especially on the lowest slopes, are abundant. The rich pasturage of
Ararat's middle zone attracts pastoral Kurdish tribes. These nomadic
shepherds, a few Tatars at New Arghuri, and a camp of Russian Cossacks
at the well of Sardarbulakh, are the only human beings to disturb the
quiet solitude of this grandest of nature's sanctuaries.

The first recorded ascent of Mount Ararat was in 1829, by Dr.
Frederick Parrot, a Russo-German professor in the University of Dorpat.
He reached the summit with a party of three Armenians and two Russian
soldiers, after two unsuccessful attempts. His ascent, however, was
doubted, not only by the people in the neighborhood, but by many men of
science and position in the Russian empire, notwithstanding his clear
account, which has been confirmed by subsequent observers, and in spite
of the testimony of the two Russian soldiers who had gone with him.(1)
Two of the Armenians who reached the summit with him declared that they
had gone to a great height, but at the point where they had left off
had seen much higher tops rising around them. This, thereupon, became
the opinion of the whole country. After Antonomoff, in 1834, Herr
Abich, the geologist, made his valuable ascent in 1845. He reached the
eastern summit, which is only a few feet lower than the western, and
only a few minutes' walk from it, but was obliged to return at once on
account of the threatening weather. When he produced his companions as
witnesses before the authorities at Erivan, they turned against him,
and solemnly swore that at the point which they had reached a higher
peak stood between them and the western horizon. This strengthened the
Armenian belief in the inaccessibility of Ararat, which was not
dissipated when the Russian military engineer, General Chodzko, and an
English party made the ascent in 1856. Nor were their prejudiced minds
convinced by the ascent of Mr. Bryce twenty years later, in 1876. Two
days after his ascent, that gentleman paid a visit to the Armenian
monastery at Echmiadzin, and was presented to the archimandrite as the
Englishman who had just ascended to the top of “Masis.” “No,” said the
ecclesiastical dignitary; “that cannot be. No one has ever been there.
It is impossible.” Mr. Bryce himself says: “I am persuaded that there
is not a person living within sight of Ararat, unless it be some
exceptionally educated Russian official at Erivan, who believes that
any human foot, since Father Noah's, has trodden that sacred summit. So
much stronger is faith than sight; or rather so much stronger is
prejudice than evidence.”

We had expected, on our arrival in Bayazid, to find in waiting for
us a Mr. Richardson, an American missionary from Erzerum. Two years
later, on our arrival home, we received a letter explaining that on his
way from Van he had been captured by Kurdish brigands, and held a
prisoner until released through the intervention of the British consul
at Erzerum. It was some such fate as this that was predicted for us,
should we ever attempt the ascent of Mount Ararat through the lawless
Kurdish tribes upon its slopes. Our first duty, therefore, was to see
the mutessarif of Bayazid, to whom we bore a letter from the Grand
Vizir of Turkey, in order to ascertain what protection and assistance
he would be willing to give us. We found with him a Circassian who
belonged to the Russian camp at Sardarbulakh, on the Ararat pass, and
who had accompanied General Chodzko on his ascent of the mountain in
1856. Both he and the mutessarif thought an ascent so early in the year
was impossible; that we ought not to think of such a thing until two
months later. It was now six weeks earlier than the time of General
Chodzko's ascent (August 11 to 18), then the earliest on record. They
both strongly recommended the northwestern slope as being more gradual.
This is the one that Parrot ascended in 1829, and where Abich was
repulsed on his third attempt. Though entirely inexperienced in
mountain-climbing, we ourselves thought that the southeast slope, the
one taken by General Chodzko, the English party, and Mr. Bryce, was far
more feasible for a small party. One thing, however, the mutessarif was
determined upon: we must not approach the mountain without an escort of
Turkish zaptiehs, as an emblem of government protection. Besides, he
would send for the chief of the Ararat Kurds, and endeavor to arrange
with him for our safety and guidance up the mountain. As we emerged
into the streets an Armenian professor gravely shook his head. “Ah,”
said he, “you will never do it.” Then dropping his voice, he told us
that those other ascents were all fictitious; that the summit of
“Masis” had never yet been reached except by Noah; and that we were
about to attempt what was an utter impossibility.

In Bayazid we could not procure even proper wood for alpenstocks.
Willow branches, two inches thick, very dry and brittle, were the best
we could obtain. Light as this wood is, the alpenstocks weighed at
least seven pounds apiece when the iron hooks and points were riveted
on at the ends by the native blacksmith, for whom we cut paper
patterns, of the exact size, for everything we wanted. We next had
large nails driven into the souls of our shoes by a local shoemaker,
who made them for us by hand out of an old English file, and who wanted
to pull them all out again because we would not pay him the exorbitant
price he demanded. In buying provisions for the expedition, we spent
three hours among the half dilapidated bazaars of the town, which have
never been repaired since the disastrous Russian bombardment. The most
difficult task, perhaps, in our work of preparation was to strike a
bargain with an Armenian muleteer to carry our food and baggage up the
mountain on his two little donkeys.

[Illustration: WHERE THE “ZAPTIEHS” WERE NOT A NUISANCE.]

Evening came, and no word from either the mutessarif or the Kurdish
chief. Although we were extremely anxious to set off on the expedition
before bad weather set in, we must not be in a hurry, for the military
governor of Karakillissa was now the guest of the mutessarif, and it
would be an interference with his social duties to try to see him until
after his guest had departed. On the morrow we were sitting in our
small dingy room after dinner, when a cavalcade hastened up to our inn,
and a few minutes later we were surprised to hear ourselves addressed
in our native tongue. Before us stood a dark-complexioned young man,
and at his side a small wiry old gentleman, who proved to be a native
Austrian Tyrolese, who followed the profession of an artist in Paris.
He was now making his way to Erivan, in Russia, on a sight-seeing tour
from Trebizond. His companion was a Greek from Salonica, who had lived
for several years in London, whence he had departed not many weeks
before, for Teheran, Persia. These two travelers had met in
Constantinople, and the young Greek, who could speak English, Greek,
and Turkish, had been acting as interpreter for the artist. They had
heard of the “devil's carts” when in Van, and had made straight for our
quarters on their arrival in Bayazid. At this point they were to
separate. When we learned that the old gentleman (Ignaz Raffl by name)
was a member of an Alpine club and an experienced mountain-climber, we
urged him to join in the ascent. Though his shoulders were bent by the
cares and troubles of sixty-three years, we finally induced him to
accompany our party. Kantsa, the Greek, reluctantly agreed to do
likewise, and proved to be an excellent interpreter, but a poor
climber.

The following morning we paid the mutessarif a second visit, with
Kantsa as interpreter. Inasmuch as the Kurdish chief had not arrived,
the mutessarif said he would make us bearers of a letter to him. Two
zaptiehs were to accompany us in the morning, while others were to go
ahead and announce our approach.

At ten minutes of eleven, on the morning of the second of July, our
small cavalcade, with the two exasperating donkeys at the head laden
with mats, bags of provisions, extra clothing, alpenstocks, spiked
shoes, and coils of stout rope, filed down the streets of Bayazid,
followed by a curious rabble. As Bayazid lies hidden behind a
projecting spur of the mountains we could obtain no view of the peak
itself until we had tramped some distance out on the plain. Its huge
giant mass broke upon us all at once. We stopped and looked—and looked
again. No mountain-peak we have seen, though several have been higher,
has ever inspired the feeling which filled us when we looked for the
first time upon towering Ararat. We had not proceeded far before we
descried a party of Kurdish horsemen approaching from the mountain. Our
zaptiehs advanced rather cautiously to meet them, with rifles thrown
across the pommels of their saddles. After a rather mysterious parley,
our zaptiehs signaled that all was well. On coming up, they reported
that these horsemen belonged to the party that was friendly to the
Turkish government. The Kurds, they said, were at this time divided
among themselves, a portion of them having adopted conciliatory
measures with the government, and the rest holding aloof. But we rather
considered their little performance as a scheme to extort a little more
baksheesh for their necessary presence.

[Illustration: READY FOR THE START.]

The plain we were now on was drained by a tributary of the Aras
River, a small stream reached after two hours' steady tramping. From
the bordering hillocks we emerged in a short time upon another vast
plateau, which stretched far away in a gentle rise to the base of the
mountain itself. Near by we discovered a lone willow-tree, the only one
in the whole sweep of our vision, under the gracious foliage of which
sat a band of Kurds, retired from the heat of the afternoon sun, their
horses feeding on some swamp grass near at hand. Attracted by this sign
of water, we drew near, and found a copious spring. A few words from
the zaptiehs, who had advanced among them, seemed to put the Kurds at
their ease, though they did not by any means appease their curiosity.
They invited us to partake of their frugal lunch of ekmek and
goat's-milk cheese. Our clothes and baggage were discussed piece by
piece, with loud expressions of merriment, until one of us arose, and,
stealing behind the group, snapped the camera. “What was that?” said a
burly member of the group, as he looked round with scowling face at his
companions. “Yes; what was that?” they echoed, and then made a rush for
the manipulator of the black box, which they evidently took for some
instrument of the black art. The photographer stood serenely innocent,
and winked at the zaptieh to give the proper explanation. He was equal
to the occasion. “That,” said he, “is an instrument for taking time by
the sun.” At this the box went the round, each one gazing intently into
the lens, then scratching his head, and casting a bewildered look at
his nearest neighbor. We noticed that every one about us was armed with
knife, revolver, and Martini rifle, a belt of cartridges surrounding
his waist. It occurred to us that Turkey was adopting a rather poor
method of clipping the wings of these mountain birds, by selling them
the very best equipments for war. Legally, none but government guards
are permitted to carry arms, and yet both guns and ammunition are sold
in the bazaars of almost every city of the Turkish dominions. The
existence of these people, in their wild, semi-independent state, shows
not so much the power of the Kurds as the weakness of the Turkish
government, which desires to use a people of so fierce a reputation for
the suppression of its other subjects. After half an hour's rest, we
prepared to decamp, and so did our Kurdish companions. They were soon
in their saddles, and galloping away in front of us, with their arms
clanking, and glittering in the afternoon sunlight.

At the spring we had turned off the trail that led over the
Sardarbulakh pass into Russia, and were now following a horse-path
which winds up to the Kurdish encampments on the southern slope of the
mountain. The plain was strewn with sand and rocks, with here and there
a bunch of tough, wiry grass about a foot and a half high, which,
though early in the year, was partly dry. It would have been hot work
except for the rain of the day before and a strong southeast wind. As
it was, our feet were blistered and bruised, the thin leather sandals
worn at the outset offering very poor protection. The atmosphere being
dry, though not excessively hot, we soon began to suffer from thirst.
Although we searched diligently for water, we did not find it till
after two hours more of constant marching, when at a height of about
6000 feet, fifty yards from the path, we discerned a picturesque
cascade of sparkling, cold mountain water. Even the old gentleman,
Raffl, joined heartily in the gaiety induced by this clear, cold water
from Ararat's melting snows.

[Illustration: PARLEYING WITH THE KURDISH PARTY AT THE SPRING.]

Our ascent for two and a half hours longer was through a luxuriant
vegetation of flowers, grasses, and weeds, which grew more and more
scanty as we advanced. Prominent among the specimens were the wild
pink, poppy, and rose. One small fragrant herb, that was the most
abundant of all, we were told was used by the Kurds for making tea. All
these filled the evening air with perfume as we trudged along, passing
now and then a Kurdish lad, with his flock of sheep and goats feeding
on the mountain-grass, which was here much more luxuriant than below.
Looking backward, we saw that we were higher than the precipitous
cliffs which overtower the town of Bayazid, and which are perhaps from
1500 to 2000 feet above the lowest part of the plain. The view over the
plateau was now grand. Though we were all fatigued by the day's work,
the cool, moisture-laden air of evening revived our flagging spirits.
We forged ahead with nimble step, joking, and singing a variety of
national airs. The French “Marseillaise,” in which the old gentleman
heartily joined, echoed and reëchoed among the rocks, and caused the
shepherd lads and their flocks to crane their heads in wonderment. Even
the Armenian muleteer so far overcame his fear of the Kurdish robbers
as to indulge in one of his accustomed funeral dirges; but it stopped
short, never to go again, when we came in sight of the Kurdish
encampment. The poor fellow instinctively grabbed his donkeys about
their necks, as though they were about to plunge over a precipice. The
zaptiehs dashed ahead with the mutessarif's letter to the Kurdish
chief. We followed slowly on foot, while the Armenian and his two pets
kept at a respectful distance in the rear.

The disk of the sun had already touched the western horizon when we
came to the black tents of the Kurdish encampment, which at this time
of the day presented a rather busy scene. The women seemed to be doing
all the work, while their lords sat round on their haunches. Some of
the women were engaged in milking the sheep and goats in an inclosure.
Others were busy making butter in a churn which was nothing more than a
skin vessel three feet long, of the shape of a Brazil-nut, suspended
from a rude tripod; this they swung to and fro to the tune of a weird
Kurdish song. Behind one of the tents, on a primitive weaving-machine,
some of them were making tent-roofing and matting. Others still were
walking about with a ball of wool in one hand and a distaff in the
other, spinning yarn. The flocks stood round about, bleating and
lowing, or chewing their cud in quiet contentment. All seemed very
domestic and peaceful except the Kurdish dogs, which set upon us with
loud, fierce growls and gnashing teeth.

Not so was it with the Kurdish chief, who by this time had finished
reading the mutessarif's message, and who now advanced from his tent
with salaams of welcome. As he stood before us in the glowing sunset,
he was a rather tall, but well-proportioned man, with black eyes and
dark mustache, contrasting well with his brown-tanned complexion. Upon
his face was the stamp of a rather wild and retiring character,
although treachery and deceit were by no means wanting. He wore a
headgear that was something between a hat and a turban, and over his
baggy Turkish trousers hung a long Persian coat of bright-colored,
large-figured cloth, bound at the waist by a belt of cartridges. Across
the shoulders was slung a breech-loading Martini rifle, and from his
neck dangled a heavy gold chain, which was probably the spoil of some
predatory expedition. A quiet dignity sat on Ismail Deverish's stalwart
form.

[Illustration: THE KURDISH ENCAMPMENT.]

It was with no little pleasure that we accepted his invitation to a
cup of tea. After our walk of nineteen miles, in which we had ascended
from 3000 to 7000 feet, we were in fit condition to appreciate a rest.
That Kurdish tent, as far as we were concerned, was a veritable palace,
although we were almost blinded by the smoke from the green
pine-branches on the smoldering fire. We said that the chief invited us
to a cup of tea: so he did—but we provided the tea; and that, too, not
only for our own party, but for half a dozen of the chief's personal
friends. There being only two glasses in the camp, we of course had to
wait until our Kurdish acquaintances had quenched their burning thirst.
In thoughtful mood we gazed around through the evening twilight. Far
away on the western slope we could see some Kurdish women plodding
along under heavy burdens of pine-branches like those that were now
fumigating our eyes and nostrils. Across the hills the Kurdish
shepherds were driving home their herds and flocks to the tinkling of
bells. All this, to us, was deeply impressive. Such peaceful scenes, we
thought, could never be the haunt of warlike robbers. The flocks at
last came home; the shouts of the shepherds ceased; darkness fell; and
all was quiet.

One by one the lights in the tents broke out, like the stars above.
As the darkness deepened, they shone more and more brightly across the
amphitheater of the encampment. The tent in which we were now sitting
was oblong in shape, covered with a mixture of goats' and sheep's wool,
carded, spun, and woven by the Kurdish women. This tenting was all of a
dark brown or black color. The various strips were badly joined
together, allowing the snow and rain, during the stormy night that
followed, to penetrate plentifully. A wickerwork fencing, about three
feet high, made from the reeds gathered in the swamps of the Aras
River, was stretched around the bottom of the tent to keep out the
cattle as well as to afford some little protection from the elements.
This same material, of the same width or height, was used to partition
off the apartments of the women. Far from being veiled and shut up in
harems, like their Turkish and Persian sisters, the Kurdish women come
and go among the men, and talk and laugh as they please. The thinness
and lowness of the partition walls did not disturb their astonishing
equanimity. In their relations with the men the women are extremely
free. During the evening we frequently found ourselves surrounded by a
concourse of these mountain beauties, who would sit and stare at us
with their black eyes, call attention to our personal oddities, and
laugh among themselves. Now and then their jokes at our expense would
produce hilarious laughter among the men. The dress of these women
consisted of baggy trousers, better described in this country as
“divided skirts,” a bright-colored overskirt and tunic, and a little
round cloth cap encircled with a band of red and black. Through the
right lobe of the nose was hung a peculiar button-shaped ornament
studded with precious stones. This picturesque costume well set off
their rich olive complexions, and black eyes beneath dark-brown lashes.

There were no signs of an approaching evening meal until we opened
our provision-bag, and handed over certain articles of raw food to be
cooked for us. No sooner were the viands intrusted to the care of our
hosts, than two sets of pots and kettles made their appearance in the
other compartments. In half an hour our host and friends proceeded to
indulge their voracious appetites. When our own meal was brought to us
some time after, we noticed that the fourteen eggs we had doled out had
been reduced to six; and the other materials suffered a similar
reduction, the whole thing being so patent as to make their attempt at
innocence absurdly ludicrous. We thought, however, if Kurdish highway
robbery took no worse form than this, we could well afford to be
content. Supper over, we squatted round a slow-burning fire, on the
thick felt mats which served as carpets, drank tea, and smoked the
usual cigarettes. By the light of the glowing embers we could watch the
faces about us, and catch their horrified glances when reference was
made to our intended ascent of Ak-Dagh, the mysterious abode of the
jinn. Before turning in for the night, we reconnoitered our situation.
The lights in all the tents, save our own, were now extinguished. Not a
sound was heard, except the heavy breathing of some of the slumbering
animals about us, or the bark of a dog at some distant encampment. The
huge dome of Ararat, though six to eight miles farther up the slope,
seemed to be towering over us like some giant monster of another world.
We could not see the summit, so far was it above the enveloping clouds.
We returned to the tent to find that the zaptiehs had been given the
best places and best covers to sleep in, and that we were expected to
accommodate ourselves near the door, wrapped up in an old Kurdish
carpet. Policy was evidently a better developed trait of Kurdish
character than hospitality.

Although we arose at four, seven o'clock saw us still at the
encampment. Two hours vanished before our gentlemen zaptiehs
condescended to rise from their peaceful slumbers; then a great deal of
time was unnecessarily consumed in eating their special breakfast. We
ourselves had to be content with ekmek and yaourt (blotting-paper bread
and curdled milk). This over, they concluded not to go on without
sandals to take the place of their heavy military boots, as at this
point their horses would have to be discarded. After we had employed a
Kurd to make these for them, they declared they were afraid to proceed
without the company of ten Kurds armed to the teeth. We knew that this
was only a scheme on the part of the Kurds, with whom the zaptiehs were
in league, to extort money from us. We still kept cool, and only
casually insinuated that we did not have enough money to pay for so
large a party. This announcement worked like a charm. The interest the
Kurds had up to this time taken in our venture died away at once. Even
the three Kurds who, as requested in the message of the mutessarif,
were to accompany us up the mountain to the snow-line, refused
absolutely to go. The mention of the mutessarif's name awakened only a
sneer. We had also relied upon the Kurds for blankets, as we had been
advised to do by our friends in Bayazid. Those we had already hired
they now snatched from the donkeys standing before the tent. All this
time our tall, gaunt, meek-looking muleteer had stood silent. Now his
turn had come. How far was he to go with his donkeys?—he didn't think
it possible for him to go much beyond this point. Patience now ceased
to be a virtue. We cut off discussion at once; told the muleteer he
would either go on, or lose what he had already earned; and informed
the zaptiehs that whatever they did would be reported to the mutessarif
on our return. Under this rather forcible persuasion, they stood not on
the order of their going, but sullenly followed our little procession
out of camp before the crestfallen Kurds.

In the absence of guides we were thrown upon our own resources. Far
from being an assistance, our zaptiehs proved a nuisance. They would
carry nothing, not even the food they were to eat, and were absolutely
ignorant of the country we were to traverse. From our observations on
the previous days, we had decided to strike out on a northeast course,
over the gentle slope, until we struck the rocky ridges on the
southeast buttress of the dome. On its projecting rocks, which extended
nearer to the summit than those of any other part of the mountain, we
could avoid the slippery, precipitous snow-beds that stretched far down
the mountain at this time of the year.

Immediately after leaving the encampment, the ascent became steeper
and more difficult; the small volcanic stones of yesterday now
increased to huge obstructing boulders, among which the donkeys with
difficulty made their way. They frequently tipped their loads, or got
wedged in between two unyielding walls. In the midst of our efforts to
extricate them, we often wondered how Noah ever managed with the
animals from the ark. Had these donkeys not been of a philosophical
turn of mind, they might have offered forcible objections to the way we
extricated them from their straightened circumstances. A remonstrance
on our part for carelessness in driving brought from the muleteer a
burst of Turkish profanity that made the rocks of Ararat resound with
indignant echoes. The spirit of insubordination seemed to be increasing
in direct ratio with the height of our ascent.

We came now to a comparatively smooth, green slope, which led up to
the highest Kurdish encampment met on the line of our ascent, about
7500 feet. When in sight of the black tents, the subject of Kurdish
guides was again broached by the zaptiehs, and immediately they sat
down to discuss the question. We ourselves were through with
discussion, and fully determined to have nothing to do with a people
who could do absolutely nothing for us. We stopped at the tents, and
asked for milk. “Yes,” they said; “we have some”: but after waiting for
ten minutes, we learned that the milk was still in the goats'
possession, several hundred yards away among the rocks. It dawned upon
us that this was only another trick of the zaptiehs to get a rest.

[Illustration: OUR GUARDS SIT DOWN TO DISCUSS THE SITUATION.]

We pushed on the next 500 feet of the ascent without much trouble or
controversy, the silence broken only by the muleteer, who took the
raki bottle off the donkey's pack, and asked if he could take a
drink. As we had only a limited supply, to be used to dilute the
snow-water, we were obliged to refuse him.

At 8000 feet we struck our first snowdrift, into which the donkeys
sank up to their bodies. It required our united efforts to lift them
out, and half carry them across. Then on we climbed till ten o'clock,
to a point about 9000 feet, where we stopped for lunch in a quiet
mountain glen, by the side of a rippling mountain rill. This snow-water
we drank with raki. The view in the mean time had been growing more and
more extensive. The plain before us had lost nearly all its detail and
color, and was merged into one vast whole. Though less picturesque, it
was incomparably grander. Now we could see how, in ages past, the lava
had burst out of the lateral fissures in the mountain, and flowed in
huge streams for miles down the slope, and out on the plain below.
These beds of lava were gradually broken up by the action of the
elements, and now presented the appearance of ridges of broken volcanic
rocks of the most varied and fantastic shapes.

It was here that the muleteer showed evident signs of weakening,
which later on developed into a total collapse. We had come to a broad
snow-field where the donkeys stuck fast and rolled over helpless in the
snow. Even after we had unstrapped their baggage and carried it over on
our shoulders, they could make no headway. The muleteer gave up in
despair, and refused even to help us carry our loads to the top of an
adjoining hill, whither the zaptiehs had proceeded to wait for us. In
consequence, Raffl and we were compelled to carry two donkey-loads of
baggage for half a mile over the snow-beds and boulders, followed by
the sulking muleteer, who had deserted his donkeys, rather than be left
alone himself. On reaching the zaptiehs, we sat down to hold a council
on the situation; but the clouds, which, during the day, had
occasionally obscured the top of the mountain, now began to thicken,
and it was not long before a shower compelled us to beat a hasty
retreat to a neighboring ledge of rocks. The clouds that were rolling
between us and the mountain summit seemed but a token of the storm of
circumstances. One thing was certain, the muleteer could go no farther
up the mountain, and yet he was mortally afraid to return alone to the
Kurdish robbers. He sat down, and began to cry like a child. This
predicament of their accomplice furnished the zaptiehs with a plausible
excuse. They now absolutely refused to go any farther without him. Our
interpreter, the Greek, again joined the majority; he was not going to
risk the ascent without the Turkish guards, and besides, he had now
come to the conclusion that we had not sufficient blankets to spend a
night at so high an altitude. Disappointed, but not discouraged, we
gazed at the silent old gentleman at our side. In his determined
countenance we read his answer. Long shall we remember Ignaz Raffl as
one of the pluckiest, most persevering of old men.

[Illustration: HELPING THE DONKEYS OVER A SNOW-FIELD.]

There was now only one plan that could be pursued. Selecting from
our supplies one small blanket, a felt mat, two long, stout ropes,
enough food to last us two days, a bottle of cold tea, and a can of
Turkish raki, we packed them into two bundles to strap on our backs. We
then instructed the rest of the party to return to the Kurdish
encampment and await our return. The sky was again clear at 2:30 P. M.,
when we bade good-by to our worthless comrades and resumed the ascent.
We were now at a height of nine thousand feet, and it was our plan to
camp at a point far enough up the mountain to enable us to complete the
ascent on the following day, and return to the Kurdish encampment by
nightfall. Beyond us was a region of snow and barren rocks, among which
we still saw a small purple flower and bunches of lichens, which grew
more rare as we advanced. Our course continued in a northeast
direction, toward the main southeast ridge of the mountain. Sometimes
we were floundering with our heavy loads in the deep snow-beds, or
scrambling on hands and knees over the huge boulders of the rocky
seams. Two hours and a half of climbing brought us to the crest of the
main southeast ridge, about one thousand feet below the base of the
precipitous dome. At this point our course changed from northeast to
northwest, and continued so during the rest of the ascent. Little
Ararat was now in full view. We could even distinguish upon its
northwest side a deep-cut gorge, which was not visible before. Upon its
smooth and perfect slopes remained only the tatters of its last
winter's garments. We could also look far out over the Sardarbulakh
ridge, which connects the two Ararats, and on which the Cossacks are
encamped. It was to them that the mutessarif had desired us to go, but
we had subsequently determined to make the ascent directly from the
Turkish side.

[Illustration: LITTLE ARARAT COMES INTO VIEW.]

Following up this southeast ridge we came at 5:45 P. M. to a point
about eleven thousand feet. Here the thermometer registered 39°
Fahrenheit, and was constantly falling. If we should continue on, the
cold during the night, especially with our scanty clothing, would
become intolerable; and then, too, we could scarcely find a spot level
enough to sleep on. We therefore determined to stop here for the night,
and to continue the ascent at dawn. Some high, rugged crags on the
ridge above us attracted our attention as affording a comparatively
protected lodging. Among these we spread our carpet, and piled stones
in the intervening spaces to form a complete inclosure. Thus busily
engaged, we failed for a time to realize the grandeur of the situation.
Over the vast and misty panorama that spread out before us, the
lingering rays of the setting sun shed a tinge of gold, which was
communicated to the snowy beds around us. Behind the peak of Little
Ararat a brilliant rainbow stretched in one grand archway above the
weeping clouds. But this was only one turn of nature's kaleidoscope.
The arch soon faded away, and the shadows lengthened and deepened
across the plain, and mingled, till all was lost to view behind the
falling curtains of the night. The Kurdish tents far down the slope,
and the white curling smoke from their evening camp-fires, we could see
no more; only the occasional bark of a dog was borne upward through the
impenetrable darkness.

Colder and colder grew the atmosphere. From 39° the thermometer
gradually fell to 36°, to 33°, and during the night dropped below
freezing-point. The snow, which fell from the clouds just over our
heads, covered our frugal supper-table, on which were placed a few
hard-boiled eggs, some tough Turkish bread, cheese, and a bottle of tea
mixed with raki. Ice-tea was no doubt a luxury at this time of the
year, but not on Mount Ararat, at the height of eleven thousand feet,
with the temperature at freezing-point. M. Raffl was as cheerful as
could be expected under the circumstances. He expressed his delight at
our progress thus far; and now that we were free from our “gentlemen”
attendants, he considered our chances for success much brighter. We
turned in together under our single blanket, with the old gentleman
between us. He had put on every article of clothing, including gloves,
hat, hood, cloak, and heavy shoes. For pillows we used the
provision-bags and camera. The bottle of cold tea we buttoned up in our
coats to prevent it from freezing. On both sides, and above us, lay the
pure white snow; below us a huge abyss, into which the rocky ridge
descended like a darkened stairway to the lower regions. The awful
stillness was unbroken, save by the whistling of the wind among the
rocks. Dark masses of clouds seemed to bear down upon us every now and
then, opening up their trapdoors, and letting down a heavy fall of
snow. The heat of our bodies melted the ice beneath us, and our clothes
became saturated with ice-water. Although we were surrounded by snow
and ice, we were suffering with a burning thirst. Since separating from
our companions we had found no water whatever, while the single bottle
of cold tea we had must be preserved for the morrow. Sleep, under such
circumstances, and in our cramped position, was utterly impossible. At
one o'clock the morning star peeped above the eastern horizon. This we
watched hour after hour, as it rose in unrivaled beauty toward the
zenith, until at last it began to fade away in the first gray streaks
of the morning.

By the light of a flickering candle we ate a hurried breakfast,
fastened on our spiked shoes, and strapped to our backs a few
indispensable articles, leaving the rest of our baggage at the camp
until our return. Just at daybreak, 3:55 A. M., on the 4th of July, we
started off on what proved to be the hardest day's work we had ever
accomplished. We struck out at once across the broad snow-field to the
second rock rib on the right, which seemed to lead up to the only line
of rocks above. The surface of these large snow-beds had frozen during
the night, so that we had to cut steps with our ice-picks to keep from
slipping down their glassy surface. Up this ridge we slowly climbed for
three weary hours, leaping from boulder to boulder, or dragging
ourselves up their precipitous sides. The old gentleman halted
frequently to rest, and showed evident signs of weariness. “It is hard;
we must take it slowly,” he would say (in German) whenever our
impatience would get the better of our prudence. At seven o'clock we
reached a point about 13,500 feet, beyond which there seemed to be
nothing but the snow-covered slope, with only a few projecting rocks
along the edge of a tremendous gorge which now broke upon our
astonished gaze. Toward this we directed our course, and, an hour
later, stood upon its very verge. Our venerable companion now looked up
at the precipitous slope above us, where only some stray, projecting
rocks were left to guide us through the wilderness of snow. “Boys,”
said he, despondently, “I cannot reach the top; I have not rested
during the night, and I am now falling asleep on my feet; besides, I am
very much fatigued.” This came almost like a sob from a breaking heart.
Although the old gentleman was opposed to the ascent in the first
instance, his old Alpine spirit arose within him with all its former
vigor when once he had started up the mountain slope; and now, when
almost in sight of the very goal, his strength began to fail him. After
much persuasion and encouragement, he finally said that if he could get
half an hour's rest and sleep, he thought he would be able to continue.
We then wrapped him up in his greatcoat, and dug out a comfortable bed
in the snow, while one of us sat down, with back against him, to keep
him from rolling down the mountain-side.

[Illustration: NEARING THE HEAD OF THE GREAT CHASM.]

We were now on the chasm's brink, looking down into its unfathomable
depths. This gigantic rent, hundreds of feet in width and thousands in
depth, indicates that northwest-southeast line along which the volcanic
forces of Ararat have acted most powerfully. This fissure is perhaps
the greatest with which the mountain is seamed, and out of which has
undoubtedly been discharged a great portion of its lava. Starting from
the base of the dome, it seemed to pierce the shifting clouds to a
point about 500 feet from the summit. This line is continued out into
the plain in a series of small volcanoes the craters of which appear to
be as perfect as though they had been in activity only yesterday. The
solid red and yellow rocks which lined the sides of the great chasm
projected above the opposite brink in jagged and appalling cliffs. The
whole was incased in a mass of huge fantastic icicles, which,
glittering in the sunlight, gave it the appearance of a natural crystal
palace. No more fitting place than this could the fancy of the Kurds
depict for the home of the terrible jinn; no better symbol of nature
for the awful jaws of death.

Our companion now awoke considerably refreshed, and the ascent was
continued close to the chasm's brink. Here were the only rocks to be
seen in the vast snow-bed around us. Cautiously we proceed, with
cat-like tread, following directly in one another's footsteps, and
holding on to our alpenstocks like grim death. A loosened rock would
start at first slowly, gain momentum, and fairly fly. Striking against
some projecting ledge, it would bound a hundred feet or more into the
air, and then drop out of sight among the clouds below. Every few
moments we would stop to rest; our knees were like lead, and the high
altitude made breathing difficult. Now the trail of rocks led us within
two feet of the chasm's edge; we approached it cautiously, probing well
for a rock foundation, and gazing with dizzy heads into the abyss.

The slope became steeper and steeper, until it abutted in an almost
precipitous cliff coated with snow and glistening ice. There was no
escape from it, for all around the snow-beds were too steep and
slippery to venture an ascent upon them. Cutting steps with our
ice-picks, and half-crawling, half-dragging ourselves, with the
alpenstocks hooked into the rocks above, we scaled its height, and
advanced to the next abutment. Now a cloud, as warm as exhausted steam,
enveloped us in the midst of this ice and snow. When it cleared away,
the sun was reflected with intenser brightness. Our faces were already
smarting with blisters, and our dark glasses afforded but little
protection to our aching eyes.

At 11 A. M. we sat down on the snow to eat our last morsel of food.
The cold chicken and bread tasted like sawdust, for we had no saliva
with which to masticate them. Our single bottle of tea had given out,
and we suffered with thirst for several hours. Again the word to start
was given. We rose at once, but our stiffened legs quivered beneath us,
and we leaned on our alpenstocks for support. Still we plodded on for
two more weary hours, cutting our steps in the icy cliffs, or sinking
to our thighs in the treacherous snow-beds. We could see that we were
nearing the top of the great chasm, for the clouds, now entirely
cleared away, left our view unobstructed. We could even descry the
black Kurdish tents upon the northeast slope, and, far below, the Aras
River, like a streak of silver, threading its way into the purple
distance. The atmosphere about us grew colder, and we buttoned up our
now too scanty garments. We must be nearing the top, we thought, and
yet we were not certain, for a huge, precipitous cliff, just in front
of us, cut off the view.

“Slowly, slowly,” feebly shouted the old gentleman, as we began the
attack on its precipitous sides, now stopping to brush away the
treacherous snow, or to cut some steps in the solid ice. We pushed and
pulled one another almost to the top, and then, with one more desperate
effort, we stood upon a vast and gradually sloping snow-bed. Down we
plunged above our knees through the yielding surface, and staggered and
fell with failing strength; then rose once more and plodded on, until
at last we sank exhausted upon the top of Ararat.

For a moment only we lay gasping for breath; then a full realization
of our situation dawned upon us, and fanned the few faint sparks of
enthusiasm that remained in our exhausted bodies. We unfurled upon an
alpenstock the small silk American flag that we had brought from home,
and for the first time the “stars and stripes” was given to the breeze
on the Mountain of the Ark. Four shots fired from our revolvers in
commemoration of Independence Day broke the stillness of the gorges.
Far above the clouds, which were rolling below us over three of the
most absolute monarchies in the world, was celebrated in our simple way
a great event of republicanism.

Mount Ararat, it will be observed from the accompanying sketch, has
two tops, a few hundred yards apart, sloping, on the eastern and
western extremities, into rather prominent abutments, and separated by
a snow valley, or depression, from 50 to 100 feet in depth. The eastern
top, on which we were standing, was quite extensive, and 30 to 40 feet
lower than its western neighbor. Both tops are hummocks on the huge
dome of Ararat, like the humps on the back of a camel, on neither one
of which is there a vestige of anything but snow.

[Illustration: ON THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT ARARAT—FIRING THE FOURTH OF
JULY
SALUTE.]

There remained just as little trace of the crosses left by Parrot
and Chodzko, as of the ark itself. We remembered the pictures we had
seen in our nursery-books, which represented this mountain-top covered
with green grass, and Noah stepping out of the ark, in the bright, warm
sunshine, before the receding waves; and now we looked around and saw
this very spot covered with perpetual snow. Nor did we see any evidence
whatever of a former existing crater, except perhaps the snow-filled
depression we have just mentioned. There was nothing about this
perpetual snow-field, and the freezing atmosphere that was chilling us
to the bone, to remind us that we were on the top of an extinct volcano
that once trembled with the convulsions of subterranean heat.

The view from this towering height was immeasurably extensive, and
almost too grand. All detail was lost—all color, all outline; even the
surrounding mountains seemed to be but excrescent ridges of the plain.
Then, too, we could catch only occasional glimpses, as the clouds
shifted to and fro. At one time they opened up beneath us, and revealed
the Aras valley with its glittering ribbon of silver at an abysmal
depth below. Now and then we could descry the black volcanic peaks of
Ali Ghez forty miles away to the northwest, and on the southwest the
low mountains that obscured the town of Bayazid. Of the Caucasus, the
mountains about Erzerum on the west, and Lake Van on the south, and
even of the Caspian Sea, all of which are said to be in Ararat's
horizon, we could see absolutely nothing.

Had it been a clear day we could have seen not only the rival peaks
of the Caucasus, which for so many years formed the northern wall of
the civilized world, but, far to the south, we might have descried the
mountains of Quardu land, where Chaldean legend has placed the landing
of the ark. We might have gazed, in philosophic mood, over the whole of
the Aras valley, which for 3000 years or more has been the scene of so
much misery and conflict. As monuments of two extreme events in this
historic period, two spots might have attracted our attention—one
right below us, the ruins of Artaxata, which, according to tradition,
was built, as the story goes, after the plans of the roving conqueror
Hannibal, and stormed by the Roman legions, A. D. 58; and farther away
to the north, the modern fortress of Kars, which so recently
reverberated with the thunders of the Turkish war.

We were suddenly aroused by the rumbling of thunder below us. A
storm was rolling rapidly up the southeast slope of the mountain. The
atmosphere seemed to be boiling over the heated plain below. Higher and
higher came the clouds, rolling and seething among the grim crags along
the chasm; and soon we were caught in its embrace. The thermometer
dropped at once below freezing-point, and the dense mists, driven
against us by the hurricane, formed icicles on our blistered faces, and
froze the ink in our fountain-pens. Our summer clothing was wholly
inadequate for such an unexpected experience; we were chilled to the
bone. To have remained where we were would have been jeopardizing our
health, if not our lives. Although we could scarcely see far enough
ahead to follow back on the track by which we had ascended, yet we were
obliged to attempt it at once, for the storm around us was increasing
every moment; we could even feel the charges of electricity whenever we
touched the iron points of our alpenstocks.

Carefully peering through the clouds, we managed to follow the trail
we had made along the gradually sloping summit, to the head of the
great chasm, which now appeared more terrible than ever. We here saw
that it would be extremely perilous, if not actually impossible, to
attempt a descent on the rocks along its treacherous edge in such a
hurricane. The only alternative was to take the precipitous
snow-covered slope. Planting our ice-hooks deep in the snow behind us,
we started. At first the strong head wind, which on the top almost took
us off our feet, somewhat checked our downward career, but it was not
long before we attained a velocity that made our hair stand on end. It
was a thrilling experience; we seemed to be sailing through the air
itself, for the clouds obscured the slope even twenty feet below.
Finally we emerged beneath them into the glare of the afternoon
sunlight; but on we dashed for 6000 feet, leaning heavily on the
trailing-stocks, which threw up an icy spray in our wake. We never once
stopped until we reached the bottom of the dome, at our last night's
camp among the rocks.

In less than an hour we had dashed down, through a distance which it
had taken us nine and a half hours to ascend. The camp was reached at 4
P. M., just twelve hours from the time we left it. Gathering up the
remaining baggage, we hurried away to continue the descent. We must
make desperate efforts to reach the Kurdish encampment by nightfall;
for during the last twenty-seven hours we had had nothing to drink but
half a pint of tea, and our thirst by this time became almost
intolerable.

The large snow-bed down which we had been sliding now began to show
signs of treachery. The snow, at this low altitude, had melted out from
below, to supply the subterranean streams, leaving only a thin crust at
the surface. It was not long before one of our party fell into one of
these pitfalls up to his shoulders, and floundered about for some time
before he could extricate himself from his unexpected snow-bath.

Over the rocks and boulders the descent was much slower and more
tedious. For two hours we were thus busily engaged, when all at once a
shout rang out in the clear evening air. Looking up we saw, sure
enough, our two zaptiehs and muleteer on the very spot where we had
left them the evening before. Even the two donkeys were on hand to give
us a welcoming bray. They had come up from the encampment early in the
morning, and had been scanning the mountain all day long to get some
clue to our whereabouts. They reported that they had seen us at one
time during the morning, and had then lost sight of us among the
clouds. This solicitude on their part was no doubt prompted by the fact
that they were to be held by the mutessarif of Bayazid as personally
responsible for our safe return, and perhaps, too, by the hope that
they might thus retrieve the good graces they had lost the day before,
and thereby increase the amount of the forthcoming baksheesh. Nothing,
now, was too heavy for the donkeys, and even the zaptiehs themselves
condescended to relieve us of our alpenstocks.

That night we sat again around the Kurdish camp-fire, surrounded by
the same group of curious faces. It was interesting and even amusing to
watch the bewildered astonishment that overspread their countenances as
we related our experiences along the slope, and then upon the very top,
of Ak-Dagh. They listened throughout with profound attention, then
looked at one another in silence, and gravely shook their heads. They
could not believe it. It was impossible. Old Ararat stood above us grim
and terrible beneath the twinkling stars. To them it was, as it always
will be, the same mysterious, untrodden height—the palace of the jinn.

“It is all bosh,” was the all but universal opinion of Bayazid in
regard to our alleged ascent of Ararat. None but the Persian consul and
the mutessarif himself deigned to profess a belief in it, and the gift
of several letters to Persian officials, and a sumptuous dinner on the
eve of our departure, went far toward proving their sincerity.

On the morning of July 8, in company with a body-guard of zaptiehs,
which the mutessarif forced upon us, we wheeled down from the ruined
embattlements of Bayazid. The assembled rabble raised a lusty cheer at
parting. An hour later we had surmounted the Kazlee Gool, and the “land
of Iran” was before us. At our feet lay the Turco-Persian battle-plains
of Chaldiran, spreading like a desert expanse to the parched barren
hills beyond, and dotted here and there with clumps of trees in the
village oases. And this, then, was the land where, as the poets say,
“the nightingale sings, and the rose-tree blossoms,” and where “a
flower is crushed at every step!” More truth, we thought, in the Scotch
traveler's description, which divides Persia into two portions—“One
desert with salt, and the other desert without salt.” In time we came
to McGregor's opinion as expressed in his description of Khorassan. “We
should fancy,” said he, “a small green circle round every village
indicated on the map, and shade all the rest in brown.” The mighty
hosts whose onward sweep from the Indus westward was checked only by
the Grecian phalanx upon the field of Marathon must have come from the
scattered ruins around, which reminded us that “Iran was; she is no
more.” Those myriad ranks of Yenghiz Khan and Tamerlane brought death
and desolation from Turan to Iran, which so often met to act and react
upon one another that both are now only landmarks in the sea of
oblivion.

[Illustration: HARVEST SCENE NEAR KHOI.]

Our honorary escort accompanied us several miles over the border to
the Persian village of Killissakend, and there committed us to the
hospitality of the district khan, with whom we managed to converse in
the Turkish language, which, strange to say, we found available in all
the countries that lay in our transcontinental pathway as far as the
great wall of China. Toward evening we rode in the garden of the harem
of the khan, and at daybreak the next morning were again in the saddle.
By a very early start we hoped to escape the burden of excessive
hospitality; in other words, to get rid of an escort that was an
expensive nuisance. At the next village we were confronted by what
appeared to be a shouting, gesticulating maniac. On dismounting, we
learned that a harbinger had been sent by the khan, the evening before,
to have a guard ready to join us as we passed through. In fact, two
armed
ferashes were galloping toward us, armed, as we afterward
learned, with American rifles, and the usual
kamma, or huge
dagger, swinging from a belt of cartridges. These fellows, like the
zaptiehs, were fond of ostentation. They frequently led us a roundabout
way to show us off to their relatives or friends in a neighboring
village. Nature at last came to our deliverance. As we stood on a
prominent ridge taking a last look at Mount Ararat, now more than fifty
miles away, a storm came upon us, showering hailstones as large as
walnuts. The ferashes with frantic steeds dashed ahead to seek a place
of shelter, and we saw them no more.

Five days in Persia brought us to the shores of Lake Ooroomeeyah,
the saltest body of water in the world. Early the next morning we were
wading the chilly waters of the Hadji Chai, and a few hours later found
us in the English consulate at Tabreez, where we were received by the
Persian secretary. The English government, it seemed, had become
embroiled in a local love-affair just at a time when Colonel Stewart
was off on “diplomatic duty” on the Russian Transcaspian border. An
exceptionally bright Armenian beauty, a graduate of the American
missionary schools at this place, had been abducted, it was claimed, by
a young Kurdish cavalier, and carried away to his mountain home. Her
father, who happened to be a naturalized English subject, had applied
for the assistance of his adopted country in obtaining her release.
Negotiations were at once set on foot between London and Teheran, which
finally led to a formal demand upon the Kurds by the Shah himself. Upon
their repeated refusal, seven thousand Persian troops, it was said,
were ordered to Soak Boulak, under the command of the vice-consul, Mr.
Patton. The matter at length assumed such an importance as to give
rise, in the House of Commons, to the question, “Who is Katty
Greenfield?” This, in time, was answered by that lady herself, who
declared under oath that she had become a Mohammedan, and was in love
with the man with whom she had eloped. More than this, it was learned
that she had not a drop of English blood in her veins, her father being
an Austrian, and her mother a native Armenian. Whereupon the Persian
troopers, with their much disgusted leader, beat an inglorious retreat,
leaving “Katty Greenfield” mistress of the situation, and of a Kurdish
heart.

[Illustration: LEAVING KHOI.]

In Tabreez there is one object sure to attract attention. This is
the “Ark,” or ancient fortified castle of the Persian rulers. High on
one of the sides, which a recent earthquake has rent from top to
bottom, there is a little porch whence these Persian “Bluebeards,” or
rather Redbeards, were wont to hurl unruly members of the harem. Under
the shadow of these gloomy walls was enacted a tragedy of this century.
Babism is by no means the only heresy that has sprung from the
speculative genius of Persia; but it is the one that has most deeply
moved the society of the present age, and the one which still obtains,
though in secret and without a leader. Its founder, Seyd Mohammed Ali,
better known as Bab, or “Gate,” promulgated the doctrine of anarchy to
the extent of “sparing the rod and spoiling the child,” and still
worse, perhaps, of refusing to the ladies no finery that might be at
all becoming to their person. While not a communist, as he has
sometimes been wrongly classed, he exhorted the wealthy to regard
themselves as only trustees of the poor. With no thought at first of
acquiring civil power, he and his rapidly increasing following were
driven to revolt by the persecuting mollas, and the sanguinary struggle
of 1848 followed. Bab himself was captured, and carried to this “most
fanatical city of Persia,” the burial-place of the sons of Ali. On this
very spot a company was ordered to despatch him with a volley; but when
the smoke cleared away, Bab was not to be seen. None of the bullets had
gone to the mark, and the bird had flown—but not to the safest refuge.
Had he finally escaped, the miracle thus performed would have made
Babism invincible. But he was recaptured and despatched, and his body
thrown to the canine scavengers.

[Illustration: YARD OF CARAVANSARY AT TABREEZ.]

[Illustration: LUMBER-YARD AT TABREEZ.]

Tabreez (fever-dispelling) was a misnomer in our case. Our
sojourn here was prolonged for more than a month by a slight attack of
typhoid fever, which this time seized Sachtleben, and again the kind
nursing of the missionary ladies hastened recovery. Our mail, in the
mean time, having been ordered to Teheran, we were granted the
privilege of intercepting it. For this purpose we were permitted to
overhaul the various piles of letters strewn over the dirty floor of
the distributing-office. Both the Turkish and Persian mail is carried
in saddle-bags on the backs of reinless horses driven at a rapid gallop
before the mounted mail-carrier or herdsman. Owing to the carelessness
of the postal officials, legations and consulates employ special
couriers.

The proximity of Tabreez to the Russian border makes it politically,
as well as commercially, one of the most important cities in Persia.
For this reason it is the place of residence of the Emir-e-Nizam
(leader of the army), or prime minister, as well as the Vali-Ahd, or
Prince Imperial. This prince is the Russian candidate, as opposed to
the English candidate, for the prospective vacancy on the throne. Both
of these dignitaries invited us to visit them, and showed much interest
in our “wonderful wind horses,” of the speed of which exaggerated
reports had circulated through the country. We were also favored with a
special letter for the journey to the capital.

On this stage we started August 15, stopping the first night at
Turkmanchai, the little village where was signed the famous treaty of
1828 by virtue of which the Caspian Sea became a Russian lake. The next
morning we were on the road soon after daybreak, and on approaching the
next village overtook a curious cavalcade, just concluding a long
night's journey. This consisted of a Persian palanquin, with its long
pole-shafts saddled upon the back of a mule at each end; with servants
on foot, and a body-guard of mounted soldiers. The occupant of this
peculiar conveyance remained concealed throughout the stampede which
our sudden appearance occasioned among his hearse-bearing mules, for as
such they will appear in the sequel. In our first article we mentioned
an interview in London with Malcolm Khan, the representative of the
Shah at the court of St. James. Since then, it seemed, he had fallen
into disfavor. During the late visit of the Shah to England certain
members of his retinue were so young, both in appearance and conduct,
as to be a source of mortification to the Europeanized minister. This
reached the ears of the Shah some time after his return home; and a
summons was sent for the accused to repair to Teheran. Malcolm Khan,
however, was too well versed in Oriental craft to fall into such a
trap, and announced his purpose to devote his future leisure to airing
his knowledge of Persian politics in the London press. The Persian
Minister of Foreign Affairs, Musht-a-Shar-el-Dowlet, then residing at
Tabreez, who was accused of carrying on a seditious correspondence with
Malcolm Khan, was differently situated, unfortunately. It was during
our sojourn in that city that his palatial household was raided by a
party of soldiers, and he was carried to prison as a common felon.
Being unable to pay the high price of pardon that was demanded, he was
forced away, a few days before our departure, on that dreaded journey
to the capital, which few, if any, ever complete. For on the way they
are usually met by a messenger, who proffers them a cup of coffee, a
sword, and a rope, from which they are to choose the method of their
doom. This, then, was the occupant of the mysterious palanquin, which
now was opened as we drew up before the village caravansary. Out
stepped a man, tall and portly, with beard and hair of venerable gray.
His keen eye, clear-cut features, and dignified bearing, bespoke for
him respect even in his downfall, while his stooped shoulders and
haggard countenance betrayed the weight of sorrow and sleepless nights
with which he was going to his tomb.

[Illustration: THE CONVEYANCE OF A PERSIAN OFFICIAL TRAVELING IN
DISGRACE TO TEHERAN AT THE CALL OF THE SHAH.]

At Miana, that town made infamous by its venomous insect, is located
one of the storage-stations of the Indo-European Telegraph Company. Its
straight lines of iron poles, which we followed very closely from
Tabreez to Teheran, form only a link in that great wire and cable chain
which connects Melbourne with London. We spent the following night in
the German operator's room.

The weakness of the Persian for mendacity is proverbial. One
instance of this national weakness was attended with considerable
inconvenience to us. By some mischance we had run by the village where
we intended to stop for the night, which was situated some distance off
the road. Meeting a Persian lad, we inquired the distance. He was ready
at once with a cheerful falsehood. “One farsak” (four miles), he
replied, although he must have known at the time that the village was
already behind us. On we pedaled at an increased rate, in order to
precede, if possible, the approaching darkness; for although
traditionally the land of a double dawn, Persia has only one twilight,
and that closely merged into sunset and darkness. One, two farsaks were
placed behind us, and still there was no sign of a human habitation. At
length darkness fell; we were obliged to dismount to feel our way. By
the gradually rising ground, and the rocks, we knew we were off the
road. Dropping our wheels, we groped round on hands and knees, to find,
if possible, some trace of water. With a burning thirst, a chilling
atmosphere, and swarms of mosquitos biting through our clothing, we
could not sleep. A slight drizzle began to descend. During our gloomy
vigil we were glad to hear the sounds of a caravan, toward which we
groped our way, discerning, at length, a long line of camels marching
to the music of their lantern-bearing leader. When our nickel-plated
bars and white helmets flashed in the lantern-light, there was a
shriek, and the lantern fell to the ground. The rear-guard rushed to
the front with drawn weapons; but even they started back at the sound
of our voices, as we attempted in broken Turkish to reassure them.
Explanations were made, and the camels soon quieted. Thereupon we were
surrounded with lanterns and firebrands, while the remainder of the
caravan party was called to the front. Finally we moved on, walking
side by side with the lantern-bearing leader, who ran ahead now and
then to make sure of the road. The night was the blackest we had ever
seen. Suddenly one of the camels disappeared in a ditch, and rolled
over with a groan. Fortunately, no bones were broken, and the load was
replaced. But we were off the road, and a search was begun with lights
to find the beaten path. Footsore and hungry, with an almost
intolerable thirst, we trudged along till morning, to the ding-dong,
ding-dong of the deep-toned camel-bells. Finally we reached a sluggish
river, but did not dare to satisfy our thirst, except by washing out
our mouths, and by taking occasional swallows, with long intervals of
rest, in one of which we fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. When we
awoke the midday sun was shining, and a party of Persian travelers was
bending over us.

From the high lands of Azerbeidjan, where, strange to say, nearly
all Persian pestilences arise, we dropped suddenly into the Kasveen
plain, a portion of that triangular, dried-up basin of the Persian
Mediterranean, now for the most part a sandy, saline desert. The
argillaceous dust accumulated on the Kasveen plain by the weathering of
the surrounding uplands resembles in appearance the “yellow earth” of
the Hoang Ho district in China, but remains sterile for the lack of
water. Even the little moisture that obtains beneath the surface is
sapped by the
kanots, or underground canals, which bring to the
fevered lips of the desert oases the fresh, cool springs of the Elburz.
These are dug with unerring instinct, and preserved with jealous care
by means of shafts or slanting wells dug at regular intervals across
the plain. Into these we would occasionally descend to relieve our
reflection-burned—or, as a Persian would say, “snow-burned”—faces,
while the thermometer above stood at 120° in the shade.

Over the level ninety-mile stretch between Kasveen and the capital a
so-called carriage-road has recently been constructed close to the base
of the mountain. A sudden turn round a mountain-spur, and before us was
presented to view Mount Demavend and Teheran. Soon the paved streets,
sidewalks, lamp-posts, street-railways, and even steam-tramway, of the
half modern capital were as much of a surprise to us as our “wind
horses” were to the curious crowds that escorted us to the French
Hotel.

[Illustration: A PERSIAN REPAIRING THE WHEELS OF HIS WAGON.]

From Persia it was our plan to enter Russian central Asia, and
thence to proceed to China or Siberia. To enter the Transcaspian
territory, the border-province of the Russian possessions, the sanction
of its governor, General Kuropatkine, would be quite sufficient; but
for the rest of the journey through Turkestan the Russian minister in
Teheran said we would have to await a general permission from St.
Petersburg. Six weeks were spent with our English and American
acquaintances, and still no answer was received. Winter was coming on,
and something had to be done at once. If we were to be debarred from a
northern route, we would have to attempt a passage into India either
through Afghanistan, which we were assured by all was quite impossible,
or across the deserts of southern Persia and Baluchistan. For this
latter we had already obtained a possible route from the noted
traveler, Colonel Stewart, whom we met on his way back to his consular
post at Tabreez. But just at this juncture the Russian minister advised
another plan. In order to save time, he said, we might proceed to
Meshed at once, and if our permission was not telegraphed to us at that
point, we could then turn south to Baluchistan as a last resort. This,
our friends unanimously declared, was a Muscovite trick to evade an
absolute refusal. The Russians, they assured us, would never permit a
foreign inspection of their doings on the Afghan border; and
furthermore, we would never be able to cross the uninhabited deserts of
Baluchistan. Against all protest, we waved “farewell” to the foreign
and native throng which had assembled to see us off, and on October 5
wheeled out of the fortified square on the “Pilgrim Road to Meshed.”

Before us now lay six hundred miles of barren hills, swampy
kevirs, brier-covered wastes, and salty deserts, with here and
there some kanot-fed oases. To the south lay the lifeless desert of
Luth, the “Persian Sahara,” the humidity of which is the lowest yet
recorded on the face of the globe, and compared with which “the Gobi of
China and the Kizil-Kum of central Asia are fertile regions.” It is our
extended and rather unique experience on the former of these two that
prompts us to refrain from further description of desert travel here,
where the hardships were in a measure ameliorated by frequent stations,
and by the use of cucumbers and pomegranates, both of which we carried
with us on the long desert stretches. Melons, too, the finest we have
ever seen in any land, frequently obviated the necessity of drinking
the strongly brackish water.

[Illustration: LEAVING TEHERAN FOR MESHED.]

Yet this experience was sufficient to impress us with the fact that
the national poets, Hafiz and Sadi, like Thomas Moore, have sought in
fancy what the land of Iran denied them. Those “spicy groves, echoing
with the nightingale's song,” those “rosy bowers and purling brooks,”
on the whole exist, so far as our experience goes, only in the poet's
dream.

Leaving on the right the sand-swept ruins of Veramin, that capital
of Persia before Teheran was even thought of, we traversed the pass of
Sir-Dara, identified by some as the famous “Caspian Gate,” and early in
the evening entered the village of Aradan. The usual crowd hemmed us in
on all sides, yelling, “Min, min!” (“Ride, ride!”), which took the
place of the Turkish refrain of “Bin, bin!” As we rode toward the
caravansary they shouted, “Faster, faster!” and when we began to
distance them, they caught at the rear wheels, and sent a shower of
stones after us, denting our helmets, and bruising our coatless backs.
This was too much; we dismounted and exhibited the ability to defend
ourselves, whereupon they tumbled over one another in their haste to
get away. But they were at our wheels again before we reached the
caravansary. Here they surged through the narrow gangway, and knocked
over the fruit-stands of the bazaars.

We were shown to a room, or windowless cell, in the honeycomb
structure that surrounded an open quadrangular court, at the time
filled with a caravan of pilgrims, carrying triangular white and black
flags, with the Persian coat of arms, the same we have seen over many
doorways in Persia as warnings of the danger of trespassing upon the
religious services held within. The cadaverous stench revealed the
presence of half-dried human bones being carried by relatives and
friends for interment in the sacred “City of the Silent.” Thus dead
bodies, in loosely nailed boxes, are always traveling from one end of
Persia to the other. Among the pilgrims were blue and green turbaned
Saids, direct descendants of the Prophet, as well as white-turbaned
mollas. All were sitting about on the
sakoo, or raised platform,
just finishing the evening meal. But presently one of the mollas
ascended the mound in the middle of the stable-yard, and in the manner
of the muezzin called to prayer. All kneeled, and bowed their heads
toward Mecca. Then the horses were saddled, the long, narrow boxes
attached upright to the pack-mules, and the
kajacas, or double
boxes, adjusted on the backs of the horses of the ladies. Into these
the veiled creatures entered, and drew the curtains, while the men
leaped into the saddle at a signal, and, with the tri-cornered flag at
their head, the cavalcade moved out on its long night pilgrimage. We
now learned that the village contained a
chappar khan, one of
those places of rest which have recently been provided for the use of
foreigners and others, who travel
chappar, or by relays of
post-horses. These structures are usually distinguished by a single
room built on the roof, and projecting some distance over the eaves.

[Illustration: IN A PERSIAN GRAVEYARD.]

To this we repaired at once. Its keeper evinced unusual pride in the
cleanliness of his apartments, for we were asked to take off our shoes
before entering. But while our boastful host was kicking up the mats to
convince us of the truth of his assertions, he suddenly retired behind
the scenes to rid himself of some of the pests.

[Illustration: PILGRIMS IN THE CARAVANSARY.]

Throughout our Asiatic tour eggs were our chief means of
subsistence, but
pillao, or boiled rice flavored with grease, we
found more particularly used in Persia, like
yaourt in Turkey.
This was prepared with chicken whenever it was possible to purchase a
fowl, and then we would usually make the discovery that a Persian fowl
was either wingless, legless, or otherwise defective after being
prepared by a Persian
fuzul, or foreigner's servant, who, it is
said, “shrinks from no baseness in order to eat.” Though minus these
particular appendages, it would invariably have a head; for the
fanatical Shiah frequently snatched a chicken out of our hands to
prevent us from wringing or chopping its head off. Even after our meal
was served, we would keep a sharp lookout upon the unblushing pilferers
around us, who had called to pay their respects, and to fill the room
with clouds of smoke from their chibouks and gurgling kalians. For a
fanatical Shiah will sometimes stick his dirty fingers into the dishes
of an “unbeliever,” even though he may subsequently throw away the
contaminated vessel. And this extreme fanaticism is to be found in a
country noted for its extensive latitude in the profession of religious
beliefs.

[Illustration: A PERSIAN WINE-PRESS.]

A present from the village khan was announced. In stepped two men
bearing a huge tray filled with melons, apricots, sugar, rock-candy,
nuts, pistachios, etc., all of which we must, of course, turn over to
the khan-keeper and his servants, and pay double their value to the
bearers, as a present. This polite method of extortion was followed the
next morning by one of a bolder and more peremptory nature.
Notwithstanding the feast of the night before at our expense, and in
addition to furnishing us with bedclothes which we really ought to have
been paid to sleep in, our oily host now insisted upon three or four
prices for his lodgings. We refused to pay him more than a certain sum,
and started to vacate the premises. Thereupon he and his grown son
caught hold of our bicycles. Remonstrances proving of no avail, and
being unable to force our passage through the narrow doorway with the
bicycles in our hands, we dropped them, and grappled with our
antagonists. A noisy scuffle, and then a heavy fall ensued, but luckily
we were both on the upper side. This unusual disturbance now brought
out the inmates of the adjoining
anderoon. In a moment there was
a din of feminine screams, and a flutter of garments, and then—a
crashing of our pith helmets beneath the blows of pokers and andirons.
The villagers, thus aroused, came at last to our rescue, and at once
proceeded to patch up a compromise. This, in view of the Amazonian
reinforcements, who were standing by in readiness for a second onset,
we were more than pleased to accept. From this inglorious combat we
came off without serious injury; but with those gentle poker taps were
knocked out forever all the sweet delusions of the “Light of the
Harem.”

The great antiquity of this Teheran-Meshed road, which is
undoubtedly a section of that former commercial highway between two of
the most ancient capitals in history—Nineveh and Balk, is very
graphically shown by the caravan ruts at Lasgird. These have been worn
in many places to a depth of four feet in the solid rock. It was not
far beyond this point that we began to feel the force of that famous
“Damghan wind,” so called from the city of that name. Of course this
wind was against us. In fact, throughout our Asiatic tour easterly
winds prevailed; and should we ever attempt another transcontinental
spin we would have a care to travel in the opposite direction.

[Illustration: CASTLE STRONGHOLD AT LASGIRD.]

Our peculiar mode of travel subjected us to great extremes in our
mode of living. Sometimes, indeed, it was a change almost from the
sublime to the ridiculous, and vice versa—from a stable or sheepfold,
with a diet of figs and bread, and an irrigating-ditch for a lavatory,
to a palace itself, an Oriental palace, with all the delicacies of the
East, and a host of servants to attend to our slightest wish. So it was
at Bostam, the residence of one of Persia's most influential
hakims, or governors, literally, “pillars of state,” who was also a cousin to
the Shah himself. This potentate we visited in company with an English
engineer whom we met in transit at Sharoud. It was on the evening
before, when at supper with this gentleman in his tent, that a special
messenger arrived from the governor, requesting us, as the invitation
ran, “to take our brightness into his presence.” As we entered, the
governor rose from his seat on the floor, a courtesy never shown us by
a Turkish official. Even the politest of them would, just at this
particular moment, be conveniently engrossed in the examination of some
book or paper. His courtesy was further extended by locking up our
“horses,” and making us his “prisoners” until the following morning. At
the dinner which Mr. Evans and we were invited to eat with his
excellency, benches had to be especially prepared, as there was nothing
like a chair to be found on the premises. The governor himself took his
accustomed position on the floor, with his own private dishes around
him. From these he would occasionally fish out with his fingers some
choice lamb
kebabh or cabbage
dolmah, and have it passed
over to his guests—an act which is considered one of the highest forms
of Persian hospitality.

With a shifting of the scenes of travel, we stood at sunset on the
summit of the Binalud mountains, overlooking the valley of the
Kashafrud. Our two weeks' journey was almost ended, for the city of
Meshed was now in view, ten miles away. Around us were piles of little
stones, to which each pious pilgrim adds his quota when first he sees
the “Holy Shrine,” which we beheld shining like a ball of fire in the
glow of the setting sun.

[Illustration: PILGRIM STONE HEAPS OVERLOOKING MESHED.]

While we were building our pyramid a party of returning pilgrims
greeted us with “Meshedi at last.” “Not yet,” we answered, for we knew
that the gates of the Holy City closed promptly at twilight. Yet we
determined to make the attempt. On we sped, but not with the speed of
the falling night. Dusk overtook us as we reached the plain. A moving
form was revealed to us on the bank of the irrigating-canal which
skirted the edge of the road. Backward it fell as we dashed by, and
then the sound of a splash and splutter reached us as we disappeared in
the darkness. On the morrow we learned that the spirits of Hassan and
Hussein were seen skimming the earth in their flight toward the Holy
City. We reached the bridge, and crossed the moat, but the gates were
closed. We knocked and pounded, but a hollow echo was our only
response. At last the light of a lantern illumined the crevices in the
weather-beaten doors, and a weird-looking face appeared through the
midway opening. “Who's there?” said a voice, whose sepulchral tones
might have belonged to the sexton of the Holy Tomb. “We are
Ferenghis,” we said, “and must get into the city to-night.” “That
is impossible,” he answered, “for the gates are locked, and the keys
have been sent away to the governor's palace.” With this the night air
grew more chill. But another thought struck us at once. We would send a
note to General McLean, the English consul-general, who was already
expecting us. This our interlocutor, for a certain
inam, or
Persian bakshish, at length agreed to deliver. The general, as we
afterward learned, sent a servant with a special request to the
governor's palace. Here, without delay, a squad of horsemen was
detailed, and ordered with the keys to the “Herat Gate.” The crowds in
the streets, attracted by this unusual turnout at this unusual hour,
followed in their wake to the scene of disturbance. There was a click
of locks, the clanking of chains, and the creaking of rusty hinges. The
great doors swung open, and a crowd of expectant faces received us in
the Holy City.

[Illustration: RIDING BEFORE THE GOVERNOR AT MESHED.]

Meshed claims our attention chiefly for its famous dead. In its
sacred dust lie buried our old hero Haroun al Raschid, Firdousi,
Persia's greatest epic poet, and the holy Imaum Riza, within whose
shrine every criminal may take refuge from even the Shah himself until
the payment of a blood-tax, or a debtor until the giving of a guarantee
for debt. No infidel can enter there.

[Illustration: FEMALE PILGRIMS ON THE ROAD TO MESHED.]

Meshed was the pivotal point upon which our wheel of fortune was to
turn. We were filled with no little anxiety, therefore, when, on the
day after our arrival, we received an invitation to call at the Russian
consulate-general. With great ceremony we were ushered into a suite of
elegantly furnished rooms, and received by the consul-general and his
English wife in full dress. Madame de Vlassow was radiant with smiles
as she served us tea by the side of her steaming silver samovar. She
could not wait for the circumlocution of diplomacy, but said: “It is
all right, gentlemen. General Kuropatkine has just telegraphed
permission for you to proceed to Askabad.” This precipitate remark
evidently disconcerted the consul, who could only nod his head and say,
“
Oui, oui,” in affirmation. This news lifted a heavy load from
our minds; our desert journey of six hundred miles, therefore, had not
been made in vain, and the prospect brightened for a trip through the
heart of Asia.

[Illustration: IN THE GARDEN OF THE RUSSIAN CONSULATE AT MESHED.]

Between the rival hospitality of the Russian and English consulates
our health was now in jeopardy from excess of kindness. Among other
social attentions, we received an invitation from Sahib Devan, the
governor of Khorassan, who next to the Shah is the richest man in
Persia. Although seventy-six years of age, on the day of our visit to
his palace he was literally covered with diamonds and precious stones.
With the photographer to the Shah as German interpreter, we spent half
an hour in an interesting conversation. Among other topics he mentioned
the receipt, a few days before, of a peculiar telegram from the Shah:
“Cut off the head of any one who attempts opposition to the Tobacco
Regie”; and this was followed a few days after by the inquiry, “How
many heads have you taken?” A retinue of about three hundred courtiers
followed the governor as he walked out with feeble steps to the
parade-ground. Here a company of Persian cavalry was detailed to clear
the field for the “wonderful steel horses,” which, as was said, had
come from the capital in two days, a distance of six hundred miles. The
governors extreme pleasure was afterward expressed in a special letter
for our journey to the frontier.

[Illustration: WATCH-TOWER ON THE TRANSCASPIAN RAILWAY.]

[Illustration: GIVING A “SILENT PILGRIM” A ROLL TOWARD MESHED.]

The military road now completed between Askabad and Meshed reveals
the extreme weakness of Persia's defense against Russian aggression.
Elated by her recent successes in the matter of a Russian consul at
Meshed, Russia has very forcibly invited Persia to construct more than
half of a road which, in connection with the Transcaspian railway,
makes Khorassan almost an exclusive Russian market, and opens Persia's
richest province to Russia's troops and cannon on the prospective march
to Herat. At this very writing, if the telegraph speaks the truth, the
Persian border-province of Dereguez is another cession by what the
Russians are pleased to call their Persian vassal. In addition to its
increasing commercial traffic, this road is patronized by many Shiah
devotees from the north, among whom are what the natives term the
“silent pilgrims.” These are large stones, or boulders, rolled along a
few feet at a time by the passers-by toward the Holy City. We ourselves
were employed in this pious work at the close of our first day's
journey from Meshed when we were suddenly aroused by a bantering voice
behind us. Looking up, we were hailed by Stagno Navarro, the inspector
of the Persian telegraph, who was employed with his men on a
neighboring line. With this gentleman we spent the following night in a
telegraph station, and passed a pleasant evening chatting over the
wires with friends in Meshed.

Kuchan, our next stopping-place, lies on the almost imperceptible
watershed which separates the Herat valley from the Caspian Sea. This
city, only a few months ago, was entirely destroyed by a severe
earthquake. Under date of January 28, 1894, the American press
reported: “The bodies of ten thousand victims of the awful disaster
have already been recovered. Fifty thousand cattle were destroyed at
the same time. The once important and beautiful city of twenty thousand
people is now only a scene of death, desolation, and terror.”

From this point to Askabad the construction of the military highway
speaks well for Russia's engineering skill. It crosses the Kopet Dagh
mountains over seven distinct passes in a distance of eighty miles.
This we determined to cover, if possible, in one day, inasmuch as there
was no intermediate stopping-place, and as we were not a little
delighted by the idea of at last emerging from semi-barbarism into
semi-civilization. At sunset we were scaling the fifth ridge since
leaving Kuchan at daybreak, and a few minutes later rolled up before
the Persian custom-house in the valley below. There was no evidence of
the proximity of a Russian frontier, except the extraordinary size of
the tea-glasses, from which we slaked our intolerable thirst. During
the day we had had a surfeit of cavernous gorges and commanding
pinnacles, but very little water. The only copious spring we were able
to find was filled at the time with the unwashed linen of a Persian
traveler, who sat by, smiling in derision, as we upbraided him for his
disregard of the traveling public.

[Illustration: AN INTERVIEW WITH GENERAL KUROPATKINE AT THE RACES
NEAR
ASKABAD.]

It was already dusk when we came in sight of the Russian
custom-house, a tin-roofed, stone structure, contrasting strongly with
the Persian mud hovels we had left behind. A Russian official hailed us
as we shot by, but we could not stop on the down-grade, and, besides,
darkness was too rapidly approaching to brook any delay. Askabad was
twenty-eight miles away, and although wearied by an extremely hard
day's work, we must sleep that night, if possible, in a Russian hotel.
Our pace increased with the growing darkness until at length we were
going at the rate of twelve miles per hour down a narrow gorge-like
valley toward the seventh and last ridge that lay between us and the
desert. At 9:30 P. M. we stood upon its summit, and before us stretched
the sandy wastes of Kara-Kum, enshrouded in gloom. Thousands of feet
below us the city of Askabad was ablaze with lights, shining like
beacons on the shore of the desert sea. Strains of music from a Russian
band stole faintly up through the darkness as we dismounted, and
contemplated the strange scene, until the shriek of a
locomotive-whistle startled us from our reveries. Across the desert a
train of the Transcaspian railway was gliding smoothly along toward the
city.

[Illustration: MOSQUE CONTAINING THE TOMB OF TAMERLANE AT
SAMARKAND.]

A hearty welcome back to civilized life was given us the next
evening by General Kuropatkine himself, the Governor-General of
Transcaspia. During the course of a dinner with him and his friends, he
kindly assured us that no further recommendation was needed than the
fact that we were American citizens to entitle us to travel from one
end of the Russian empire to the other.

From Askabad to Samarkand there was a break in the continuity of our
bicycle journey. Our Russian friends persuaded us to take advantage of
the Transcaspian railway, and not to hazard a journey across the
dreaded Kara-Kum sands. Such a journey, made upon the railroad track,
where water and food were obtainable at regular intervals, would have
entailed only a small part of the hardships incurred on the deserts in
China, yet we were more than anxious to reach, before the advent of
winter, a point whence we could be assured of reaching the Pacific
during the following season. Through the kindness of the railway
authorities at Bokhara station our car was side-tracked to enable us to
visit, ten miles away, that ancient city of the East. On November 6 we
reached Samarkand, the ancient capital of Tamerlane, and the present
terminus of the Transcaspian railway.

[Illustration: CARAVANSARY AT FAKIDAOUD.]

[Illustration: A MARKET-PLACE IN SAMARKAND, AND THE RUINS OF A
COLLEGE.]

On the morning of November 16 we took a last look at the blue domes
and minarets of Samarkand, intermingled with the ruins of palaces and
tombs, and then wheeled away toward the banks of the Zerafshan. Our
four days' journey of 180 miles along the regular Russian post-road was
attended with only the usual vicissitudes of ordinary travel. Wading in
our Russian top-boots through the treacherous fords of the “Snake”
defile, we passed the pyramidal slate rock known as the “Gate of
Tamerlane,” and emerged upon a strip of the Kizil-Kum steppe,
stretching hence in painful monotony to the bank of the Sir Daria
river. This we crossed by a rude rope-ferry, filled at the time with a
passing caravan, and then began at once to ascend the valley of the
Tchirtchick toward Tashkend. The blackened cotton which the natives
were gathering from the fields, the lowering snow-line on the
mountains, the muddy roads, the chilling atmosphere, and the falling
leaves of the giant poplars—all warned us of the approach of winter.

We had hoped at least to reach Vernoye, a provincial capital near
the converging point of the Turkestan, Siberian, and Chinese
boundaries, whence we could continue, on the opening of the following
spring, either through Siberia or across the Chinese empire. But in
this we were doomed to disappointment. The delay on the part of the
Russian authorities in granting us permission to enter Transcaspia had
postponed at least a month our arrival in Tashkend, and now, owing to
the early advent of the rainy season, the roads leading north were
almost impassable even for the native carts. This fact, together with
the reports of heavy snowfalls beyond the Alexandrovski mountains, on
the road to Vernoye, lent a rather cogent influence to the persuasions
of our friends to spend the winter among them.

[Illustration: A RELIGIOUS DRAMA IN SAMARKAND.]

Then, too, such a plan, we thought, might not be unproductive of
future advantages. Thus far we had been journeying through Russian
territory without a passport. We had no authorization except the
telegram to “come on,” received from General Kuropatkine at Askabad,
and the verbal permission of Count Rosterzsoff at Samarkand to proceed
to Tashkend. Furthermore, the passport for which we had just applied to
Baron Wrevsky, the Governor-General of Turkestan, would be available
only as far as the border of Siberia, where we should have to apply to
the various governors-general along our course to the Pacific, in case
we should find the route across the Chinese empire impracticable. A
general permission to travel from Tashkend to the Pacific coast,
through southern Siberia, could be obtained from St. Petersburg only,
and that only through the chief executive of the province through which
we were passing.

Permission to enter Turkestan is by no means easily obtained, as is
well understood by the student of Russian policy in central Asia. We
were not a little surprised, therefore, when our request to spend the
winter in its capital was graciously granted by Baron Wrevsky, as well
as the privilege for one of us to return in the mean time to London.
This we had determined on, in order to secure some much-needed bicycle
supplies, and to complete other arrangements for the success of our
enterprise. By lot the return trip fell to Sachtleben. Proceeding by
the Transcaspian and Transcaucasus railroads, the Caspian and Black
seas, to Constantinople, and thence by the “overland express” to
Belgrade, Vienna, Frankfort, and Calais, he was able to reach London in
sixteen days.

Tashkend, though nearly in the same latitude as New York, is so
protected by the Alexandrovski mountains from the Siberian blizzards
and the scorching winds of the Kara-Kum desert as to have an even more
moderate climate. A tributary of the Tchirtchick river forms the line
of demarcation between the native and the European portions of the
city, although the population of the latter is by no means devoid of a
native element. Both together cover an area as extensive as Paris,
though the population is only 120,000, of which 100,000 are congregated
in the native, or Sart, quarter. There is a floating element of
Kashgarians, Bokhariots, Persians, and Afghans, and a resident majority
of Kirghiz, Tatars, Jews, Hindus, gypsies, and Sarts, the latter being
a generic title for the urban, as distinguished from the nomad, people.

[Illustration: OUR FERRY OVER THE ZERAFSHAN.]

Our winter quarters were obtained at the home of a typical Russian
family, in company with a young reserve officer. He, having finished
his university career and time of military service, was engaged in
Tashkend in the interest of his father, a wholesale merchant in Moscow.
With him we were able to converse either in French or German, both of
which languages he could speak more purely than his native Russian. Our
good-natured, corpulent host had emigrated, in the pioneer days, from
the steppes of southern Russia, and had grown wealthy through the
“unearned increment.”

The Russian samovar is the characteristic feature of the Russian
household. Besides a big bowl of cabbage soup at every meal, our
Russian host would start in with a half-tumbler of vodka, dispose of a
bottle of beer in the intervals, and then top off with two or three
glasses of tea. The mistress of the household, being limited in her
beverages to tea and soup, would usually make up in quantity what was
lacking in variety. In fact, one day she informed us that she had not
imbibed a drop of water for over six years. For this, however, there is
a very plausible excuse. With the water at Tashkend, as with that from
the Zerafshan at Bokhara, a dangerous worm called
reshta is
absorbed into the system. Nowhere have we drunk better tea than around
the steaming samovar of our Tashkend host. No peasant is too poor,
either in money or in sentiment, to buy and feel the cheering influence
of tea. Even the Cossack, in his forays into the wilds of central Asia,
is sustained by it. Unlike the Chinese, the Russians consider sugar a
necessary concomitant of tea-drinking. There are three methods of
sweetening tea: to put the sugar in the glass; to place a lump of sugar
in the mouth, and suck the tea through it; to hang a lump in the midst
of a tea-drinking circle, to be swung around for each in turn to touch
with his tongue, and then to take a swallow of tea.

The meaning of the name Tashkend is “city of stone,” but a majority
of the houses are one-story mud structures, built low, so as to prevent
any disastrous effects from earthquakes. The roofs are so flat and
poorly constructed that during the rainy season a dry ceiling is rather
the exception than the rule. Every building is covered with whitewash
or white paint, and fronts directly on the street. There are plenty of
back and side yards, but none in front. This is not so bad on the broad
streets of a Russian town. In Tashkend they are exceptionally wide,
with ditches on each side through which the water from the Tchirtchick
ripples along beneath the double, and even quadruple, rows of poplars,
acacias, and willows. These trees grow here with remarkable luxuriance,
from a mere twig stuck into the ground. Although twenty years of
Russian irrigation has given Nature a chance to rear thousands of trees
on former barren wastes, yet wood is still comparatively scarce and
dear.

The administration buildings of the city are for the most part
exceedingly plain and unpretentious. In striking contrast is the new
Russian cathedral, the recently erected school, and a large retail
store built by a resident Greek, all of which are fine specimens of
Russian architecture. Among its institutions are an observatory, a
museum containing an embryo collection of Turkestan products and
antiquities, and a medical dispensary for the natives, where
vaccination is performed by graduates of medicine in the Tashkend
school. The rather extensive library was originally collected for the
chancellery of the governor-general, and contains the best collection
of works on central Asia that is to be found in the world, including in
its scope not only books and pamphlets, but even magazines and
newspaper articles. For amusements, the city has a theater, a small
imitation of the opera-house at Paris; and the Military Club, which,
with its billiards and gambling, and weekly reunions, balls, and
concerts, though a regular feature of a Russian garrison town, is
especially pretentious in Tashkend. In size, architecture, and
appointments, the club-house has no equal, we were told, outside the
capital and Moscow.

[Illustration: PALACE OF THE CZAR'S NEPHEW, TASHKEND.]

Tashkend has long been known as a refuge for damaged reputations and
shattered fortunes, or “the official purgatory following upon the
emperor's displeasure.” One of the finest houses of the city is
occupied by the Grand Duke Nicholai Constantinovitch Romanoff, son of
the late general admiral of the Russian navy, and first cousin to the
Czar, who seems to be cheerfully resigned to his life in exile. Most of
his time is occupied with the business of his silk-factory on the
outskirts of Tashkend, and at his farm near Hodjent, which a certain
firm in Chicago, at the time of our sojourn, was stocking with
irrigating machinery. All of his bills are paid with checks drawn on
his St. Petersburg trustees. His private life is rather unconventional
and even democratic. Visitors to his household are particularly
impressed with the beauty of his wife and the size of his liquor
glasses. The example of the grand duke illustrates the sentiment in
favor of industrial pursuits which is growing among the military
classes, and even among the nobility, of Russia. The government itself,
thanks to the severe lesson of the Crimean war, has learned that a
great nation must stand upon a foundation of something more than
aristocracy and nobility. To this influence is largely due the present
growing prosperity of Tashkend, which, in military importance, is
rapidly giving way to Askabad, “the key to Herat.”

That spirit of equality and fraternity which characterizes the
government of a Russian
mir, or village, has been carried even
into central Asia. We have frequently seen Russian peasants and natives
occupying adjoining apartments in the same household, while in the
process of trade all classes seem to fraternize in an easy and even
cordial manner. The same is true of the children, who play together
indiscriminately in the street. Many a one of these heterogeneous
groups we have watched “playing marbles” with the ankle-bones of sheep,
and listened, with some amusement, to their half Russian, half native
jargon. Schools are now being established to educate the native
children in the Russian language and methods, and native apprentices
are being taken in by Russian merchants for the same purpose.

In Tashkend, as in every European city of the Orient, drunkenness,
and gambling, and social laxity have followed upon the introduction of
Western morals and culture. Jealousy and intrigue among the officers
and functionaries are also not strange, perhaps, at so great a distance
from headquarters, where the only avenue to distinction seems to lie
through the public service. At the various dinner-parties and sociables
given throughout the winter, the topic of war always met with general
welcome. On one occasion a report was circulated that Abdurrahman Khan,
the Ameer of Afghanistan, was lying at the point of death. Great
preparations, it was said, were being made for an expedition over the
Pamir, to establish on the throne the Russian candidate, Is-shah Khan
from Samarkand, before Ayub Khan, the rival British protégé, could be
brought from India. The young officers at once began to discuss their
chances for promotion, and the number of decorations to be forthcoming
from St. Petersburg. The social gatherings at Tashkend were more
convivial than sociable. Acquaintances can eat and drink together with
the greatest of good cheer, but there is very little sympathy in
conversation. It was difficult for them to understand why we had come
so far to see a country which to many of them was a place of exile.

[Illustration: A SART RESCUING HIS CHILDREN FROM THE CAMERA OF THE
“FOREIGN DEVILS.”]

An early spring did not mean an early departure from winter
quarters. Impassable roads kept us anxious prisoners for a month and a
half after the necessary papers had been secured. These included, in
addition to the local passports, a carte-blanche permission to travel
from Tashkend to Vladivostock through Turkestan and Siberia, a document
obtained from St. Petersburg through the United States minister, the
Hon. Charles Emory Smith. Of this route to the Pacific we were
therefore certain, and yet, despite the universal opinion that a
bicycle journey across the Celestial empire was impracticable, we had
determined to continue on to the border line, and there to seek better
information. “Don't go into China” were the last words of our many kind
friends as we wheeled out of Tashkend on the seventh of May.

At Chimkend our course turned abruptly from what was once the main
route between Russia's European and Asiatic capitals, and along which
De Lesseps, in his letter to the Czar, proposed a line of railroad to
connect Orenburg with Samarkand, a distance about equal to that between
St. Petersburg and Odessa, 1483 miles. This is also the keystone in
that wall of forts which Russia gradually raised around her unruly
nomads of the steppes, and where, according to Gortchakoff's circular
of 1864, “both interest and reason” required her to stop; and yet at
that very time General Tchernaieff was advancing his forces upon the
present capital, Tashkend. Here, too, we began that journey of 1500
miles along the Celestial mountain range which terminated only when we
scaled its summit beyond Barkul to descend again into the burning sands
of the Desert of Gobi. Here runs the great historical highway between
China and the West.

From Auli-eta eastward we had before us about 200 miles of a vast
steppe region. Near the mountains is a wilderness of lakes, swamps, and
streams, which run dry in summer. This is the country of the “Thousand
Springs” mentioned by the Chinese pilgrim Huen T'sang, and where was
established the kingdom of Black China, supposed by many to have been
one of the kingdoms of “Prester John.” But far away to our left were
the white sands of the Ak-Kum, over which the cloudless atmosphere
quivers incessantly, like the blasts of a furnace. Of all these
deserts, occupying probably one half of the whole Turkestan steppe,
none is more terrible than that of the “Golodnaya Steppe,” or Steppe of
Hunger, to the north of the “White Sands” now before us. Even in the
cool of evening, it is said that the soles of the wayfarer's feet
become scorched, and the dog accompanying him finds no repose till he
has burrowed below the burning surface. The monotonous appearance of
the steppe itself is only intensified in winter, when the snow smooths
over the broken surface, and even necessitates the placing of mud posts
at regular intervals to mark the roadway for the Kirghiz post-drivers.
But in the spring and autumn its arid surface is clothed, as if by
enchantment, with verdure and prairie flowers. Both flowers and birds
are gorgeously colored. One variety, about half the size of the jackdaw
which infests the houses of Tashkend and Samarkand, has a bright blue
body and red wings; another, resembling our field-lark in size and
habits, combines a pink breast with black head and wings. But already
this springtide splendor was beginning to disappear beneath the glare
of approaching summer. The long wagon-trains of lumber, and the
occasional traveler's tarantass rumbling along to the discord of its
duga bells, were enveloped in a cloud of suffocating dust.

[Illustration: VIEW OF CHIMKEND FROM THE CITADEL.]

Now and then we would overtake a party of Russian peasants migrating
from the famine-stricken districts of European Russia to the pioneer
colonies along this Turkestan highway. The peculiarity of these
villages is their extreme length, all the houses facing on the one wide
street. Most of them are merely mud huts, others make pretensions to
doors and windows, and a coat of whitewash. Near-by usually stands the
old battered telega which served as a home during many months of travel
over the Orenburg highway. It speaks well for the colonizing capacity
of the Russians that they can be induced to come so many hundreds of
miles from their native land, to settle in such a primitive way among
the half-wild tribes of the steppes. As yet they do very little
farming, but live, like the Kirghiz, by raising horses, cows, sheep,
and goats, and, in addition, the Russian hog, the last resembling very
much the wild swine of the jungles. Instead of the former military
colonies of plundering Cossacks, who really become more assimilated to
the Kirghiz than these to their conquerors, the
mir, or communal
system, is now penetrating these fertile districts, and systematically
replacing the Mongolian culture. But the ignorance of this lower class
of Russians is almost as noticeable as that of the natives themselves.
As soon as we entered a village, the blacksmith left his anvil, the
carpenter his bench, the storekeeper his counter, and the milkmaid her
task. After our parade of the principal street, the crowd would gather
round us at the station-house. All sorts of queries and ejaculations
would pass among them. One would ask: “Are these gentlemen baptized?
Are they really Christians?” On account of their extreme ignorance
these Russian colonists are by no means able to cope with their German
colleagues, who are given the poorest land, and yet make a better
living.

The steppe is a good place for learning patience. With the absence
of landmarks, you seem never to be getting anywhere. It presents the
appearance of a boundless level expanse, the very undulations of which
are so uniform as to conceal the intervening troughs. Into these,
horsemen, and sometimes whole caravans, mysteriously disappear. In this
way we were often enabled to surprise a herd of gazelles grazing by the
roadside. They would stand for a moment with necks extended, and then
scamper away like a shot, springing on their pipe-stem limbs three or
four feet into the air. Our average rate was about seven miles an hour,
although the roads were sometimes so soft with dust or sand as to
necessitate the laying of straw for a foundation. There was scarcely an
hour in the day when we were not accompanied by from one to twenty
Kirghiz horsemen, galloping behind us with cries of “Yakshee!”
(“Good!”) They were especially curious to see how we crossed the
roadside streams. Standing on the bank, they would watch intently every
move as we stripped and waded through with bicycles and clothing on our
shoulders. Then they would challenge us to a race, and, if the road
permitted, we would endeavor to reveal some of the possibilities of the
“devil's carts.” On an occasion like this occurred one of our few
mishaps. The road was lined by the occupants of a neighboring tent
village, who had run out to see the race. One of the Kirghiz turned
suddenly back in the opposite direction from which he had started. The
wheel struck him at a rate of fifteen miles per hour, lifting him off
his feet, and hurling over the handle-bars the rider, who fell upon his
left arm, and twisted it out of place. With the assistance of the
bystanders it was pulled back into the socket, and bandaged up till we
reached the nearest Russian village. Here the only physician was an old
blind woman of the faith-cure persuasion. Her massage treatment to
replace the muscles was really effective, and was accompanied by
prayers and by signs of the cross, a common method of treatment among
the lower class of Russians. In one instance a cure was supposed to be
effected by writing a prayer on a piece of buttered bread to be eaten
by the patient.

[Illustration: ON THE ROAD BETWEEN CHIMKEND AND VERNOYE.]

Being users but not patrons of the Russian post-roads, we were not
legally entitled to the conveniences of the post-stations. Tipping
alone, as we found on our journey from Samarkand, was not always
sufficient to preclude a request during the night to vacate the best
quarters for the post-traveler, especially if he happened to wear the
regulation brass button. To secure us against this inconvenience, and
to gain some special attention, a letter was obtained from the overseer
of the Turkestan post and telegraph district. This proved advantageous
on many occasions, and once, at Auli-eta, was even necessary. We were
surveyed with suspicious glances as soon as we entered the
station-house, and when we asked for water to lave our hands and face,
we were directed to the irrigating ditch in the street. Our request for
a better room was answered by the question, if the one we had was not
good enough, and how long we intended to occupy that. Evidently our
English conversation had gained for us the covert reputation of being
English spies, and this was verified in the minds of our hosts when we
began to ask questions about the city prisons we had passed on our way.
To every interrogation they replied, “I don't know.” But presto,
change, on the presentation of documents! Apologies were now profuse,
and besides tea, bread, and eggs, the usual rations of a Russian
post-station, we were exceptionally favored with chicken soup and
verainyik, the latter consisting of cheese wrapped and boiled in
dough, and then served in butter.

It has been the custom for travelers in Russia to decry the Russian
post-station, but the fact is that an appreciation of this rather
primitive form of accommodation depends entirely upon whether you
approach it from a European hotel or from a Persian khan. Some are
clean, while others are dirty. Nevertheless, it was always a welcome
sight to see a small white building looming up in the dim horizon at
the close of a long day's ride, and, on near approach, to observe the
black and white striped post in front, and idle tarantasses around it.
At the door would be found the usual crowd of Kirghiz post-drivers.
After the presentation of documents to the
starosta, who would
hesitate at first about quartering our horses in the travelers' room,
we would proceed at once to place our dust-covered heads beneath the
spindle of the washing-tank. Although by this dripping-pan arrangement
we would usually succeed in getting as much water down our backs as on
our faces, yet we were consoled by the thought that too much was better
than not enough, as had been the case in Turkey and Persia. Then we
would settle down before the steaming samovar to meditate in solitude
and quiet, while the rays of the declining sun shone on the gilded
eikon in the corner of the room, and on the chromo-covered walls. When
darkness fell, and the simmering music of the samovar had gradually
died away; when the flitting swallows in the room had ceased their
chirp, and settled down upon the rafters overhead, we ourselves would
turn in under our fur-lined coats upon the leather-covered benches.

In consequence of the first of a series of accidents to our wheels,
we were for several days the guests of the director of the botanical
gardens at Pishpek. As a branch of the Crown botanical gardens at St.
Petersburg, some valuable experiments were being made here with foreign
seeds and plants. Peaches, we were told, do not thrive, but apples,
pears, cherries, and the various kinds of berries, grow as well as they
do at home. Rye, however, takes three years to reach the height of one
year in America. Through the Russians, these people have obtained
high-flown ideas of America and Americans. We saw many chromos of
American celebrities in the various station-houses, and the most
numerous was that of Thomas A. Edison. His phonograph, we were told,
had already made its appearance in Pishpek, but the natives did not
seem to realize what it was. “Why,” they said, “we have often heard
better music than that.” Dr. Tanner was not without his share of fame
in this far-away country. During his fast in America, a similar, though
not voluntary, feat was being performed here. A Kirghiz messenger who
had been despatched into the mountains during the winter was lost in
the snow, and remained for twenty-eight days without food. He was found
at last, crazed by hunger. When asked what he would have to eat, he
replied, “Everything.” They foolishly gave him “everything,” and in two
days he was dead. For a long time he was called the “Doctor Tanner of
Turkestan.”

[Illustration: UPPER VALLEY OF THE CHU RIVER.]

A divergence of seventy-five miles from the regular post-route was
made in order to visit Lake Issik Kul, which is probably the largest
lake for its elevation in the world, being about ten times larger than
Lake Geneva, and at a height of 5300 feet. Its slightly brackish water,
which never freezes, teems with several varieties of fish, many of
which we helped to unhook from a Russian fisherman's line, and then
helped to eat in his primitive hut near the shore. A Russian Cossack,
who had just come over the snow-capped Ala Tau, “of the Shade,” from
Fort Narin, was also present, and from the frequent glances cast at the
fisherman's daughter we soon discovered the object of his visit. The
ascent to this lake, through the famous Buam Defile, or Happy Pass,
afforded some of the grandest scenery on our route through Asia. Its
seething, foaming, irresistible torrent needs only a large volume to
make it the equal of the rapids at Niagara.

Our return to the post-road was made by an unbeaten track over the
Ala Tau mountains. From the Chu valley, dotted here and there with
Kirghiz tent villages and their grazing flocks and herds, we pushed our
wheels up the broken path, which wound like a mythical stairway far up
into the low-hanging clouds. We trudged up one of the steepest ascents
we have ever made with a wheel. The scenery was grand, but lonely. The
wild tulips, pinks, and verbenas dotting the green slopes furnished the
only pleasant diversion from our arduous labor. Just as we turned the
highest summit, the clouds shifted for a moment, and revealed before us
two Kirghiz horsemen. They started back in astonishment, and gazed at
us as though we were demons of the air, until we disappeared again down
the opposite and more gradual slope. Late in the afternoon we emerged
upon the plain, but no post-road or station-house was in sight, as we
expected; nothing but a few Kirghiz kibitkas among the straggling
rocks, like the tents of the Egyptian Arabs among the fallen stones of
the pyramids.

[Illustration: KIRGHIZ ERECTING KIBITKAS BY THE CHU RIVER.]

Toward these we now directed our course, and, in view of a rapidly
approaching storm, asked to purchase a night's lodging. This was only
too willingly granted in anticipation of the coming
tomasha, or
exhibition. The milkmaids as they went out to the rows of sheep and
goats tied to the lines of woolen rope, and the horsemen with reinless
horses to drive in the ranging herds, spread the news from tent to
tent. By the time darkness fell the kibitka was filled to overflowing.
We were given the seat of honor opposite the doorway, bolstered up with
blankets and pillows. By the light of the fire curling its smoke upward
through the central opening in the roof, it was interesting to note the
faces of our hosts. We had never met a people of a more peaceful
temperament, and, on the other hand, none more easily frightened. A
dread of the evil eye is one of their characteristics. We had not been
settled long before the
ishan, or itinerant dervish, was called
in to drive away the evil spirits, which the “devil's carts” might
possibly have brought. Immediately on entering, he began to shrug his
shoulders, and to shiver as though passing into a state of trance. Our
dervish acquaintance was a man of more than average intelligence. He
had traveled in India, and had even heard some one speak of America.
This fact alone was sufficient to warrant him in posing as instructor
for the rest of the assembly. While we were drinking tea, a habit they
have recently adopted from the Russians, he held forth at great length
to his audience about the
Amerikón.

The rain now began to descend in torrents. The felt covering was
drawn over the central opening, and propped up at one end with a pole
to emit the clouds of smoke from the smoldering fire. This was shifted
with the veering wind. Although a mere circular rib framework covered
with white or brown felt, according as the occupant is rich or poor,
the Kirghiz kibitka, or more properly
yurt, is not as a house
builded upon the sand, even in the fiercest storm. Its stanchness and
comfort are surprising when we consider the rapidity with which it may
be taken down and transported. In half an hour a whole village may
vanish, emigrating northward in summer, and southward in winter. Many a
Kirghiz cavalcade was overtaken on the road, with long tent-ribs and
felts tied upon the backs of two-humped camels, for the Bactrian
dromedary has not been able to endure the severities of these Northern
climates. The men would always be mounted on the camels' or horses'
backs, while the women would be perched on the oxen and bullocks,
trained for the saddle and as beasts of burden. The men never walk; if
there is any leading to be done it falls to the women. The constant use
of the saddle has made many of the men bandy-legged, which, in
connection with their usual obesity,—with them a mark of
dignity,—gives them a comical appearance.

After their curiosity regarding us had been partly satisfied, it was
suggested that a sheep should be slaughtered in our honor. Neither meat
nor bread is ever eaten by any but the rich Kirghiz. Their universal
kumiss, corresponding to the Turkish yaourt, or coagulated milk, and
other forms of lacteal dishes, sometimes mixed with meal, form the
chief diet of the poor. The wife of our host, a buxom woman, who, as we
had seen, could leap upon a horse's back as readily as a man, now
entered the doorway, carrying a full-grown sheep by its woolly coat.
This she twirled over on its back, and held down with her knee while
the butcher artist drew a dagger from his belt, and held it aloft until
the assembly stroked their scant beards, and uttered the solemn
bismillah. Tired out by the day's ride, we fell asleep before the
arrangements for the feast had been completed. When awakened near
midnight, we found that the savory odor from the huge caldron on the
fire had only increased the attraction and the crowd. The choicest bits
were now selected for the guests. These consisted of pieces of liver,
served with lumps of fat from the tail of their peculiarly fat-tailed
sheep. As an act of the highest hospitality, our host dipped these into
some liquid grease, and then, reaching over, placed them in our mouths
with his fingers. It required considerable effort on this occasion to
subject our feelings of nausea to a sense of Kirghiz politeness. In
keeping with their characteristic generosity, every one in the kibitka
must partake in some measure of the feast, although the women, who had
done all the work, must be content with remnants and bones already
picked over by the host. But this disposition to share everything was
not without its other aspect; we also were expected to share everything
with them. We were asked to bestow any little trinket or nick-nack
exposed to view. Any extra nut on the machine, a handkerchief, a packet
of tea, or a lump of sugar, excited their cupidity at once. The latter
was considered a bonbon by the women and younger portion of the
spectators. The attractive daughter of our host, “Kumiss John,” amused
herself by stealing lumps of sugar from our pockets. When the feast was
ended, the beards were again stroked, the name of Allah solemnly
uttered by way of thanks for the bounty of heaven, and then each gave
utterance to his appreciation of the meal.

Before retiring for the night, the dervish led the prayers, just as
he had done at sunset. The praying-mats were spread, and all heads
bowed toward Mecca. The only preparation for retiring was the spreading
of blankets from the pile in one of the kibitkas. The Kirghiz are not
in the habit of removing many garments for this purpose, and under the
circumstances we found this custom a rather convenient one. Six of us
turned in on the floor together, forming a semicircle, with our feet
toward the fire. “Kumiss John,” who was evidently the pet of the
household, had a rudely constructed cot at the far end of the kibitka.

Vernoye, the old Almati, with its broad streets, low wood and brick
houses, and Russian sign-boards, presented a Siberian aspect. The ruins
of its many disastrous earthquakes lying low on every hand told us at
once the cause of its deserted thoroughfares. The terrible shocks of
the year before our visit killed several hundred people, and a whole
mountain in the vicinity sank. The only hope of its persistent
residents is a branch from the Transsiberian or Transcaspian railroad,
or the reannexation by Russia of the fertile province of Ili, to make
it an indispensable depot. Despite these periodical calamities, Vernoye
has had, and is now constructing, under the genius of the French
architect, Paul L. Gourdet, some of the finest edifices to be found in
central Asia. The orphan asylum, a magnificent three-story structure,
is now being built on experimental lines, to test its strength against
earthquake shocks.

[Illustration: FANTASTIC RIDING AT THE SUMMER ENCAMPMENT OF THE
COSSACKS.]

One of the chief incidents of our pleasant sojourn was afforded by
Governor Ivanoff. We were invited to head the procession of the
Cossacks on their annual departure for their summer encampment in the
mountains. After the usual religious ceremony, they filed out from the
city parade-ground. Being unavoidably detained for a few moments, we
did not come up until some time after the column had started. As we
dashed by to the front with the American and Russian flags fluttering
side by side from the handle-bars, cheer after cheer arose from the
ranks, and even the governor and his party doffed their caps in
acknowledgment. At the camp we were favored with a special exhibition
of horsemanship. By a single twist of the rein the steeds would fall to
the ground, and their riders crouch down behind them as a bulwark in
battle. Then dashing forward at full speed, they would spring to the
ground, and leap back again into the saddle, or, hanging by their legs,
would reach over and pick up a handkerchief, cap, or a soldier supposed
to be wounded. All these movements we photographed with our camera. Of
the endurance of these Cossacks and their Kirghiz horses we had a
practical test. Overtaking a Cossack courier in the early part of a
day's journey, he became so interested in the velocipede, as the
Russians call the bicycle, that he determined to see as much of it as
possible. He stayed with us the whole day, over a distance of
fifty-five miles. His chief compensation was in witnessing the surprise
of the natives to whom he would shout across the fields to come and see
the
tomasha, adding in explanation that we were the American
gentlemen who had ridden all the way from America. Our speed was not
slow, and frequently the poor fellow would have to resort to the whip,
or shout, “Slowly, gentlemen, my horse is tired; the town is not far
away, it is not necessary to hurry so.” The fact is that in all our
experience we found no horse of even the famed Kirghiz or Turkoman
breed that could travel with the same ease and rapidity as ourselves
even over the most ordinary road.

At Vernoye we began to glean practical information about China, but
all except our genial host, M. Gourdet, counseled us against our
proposed journey. He alone, as a traveler of experience, advised a
divergence from the Siberian route at Altin Imell, in order to visit
the Chinese city of Kuldja, where, as he said, with the assistance of
the resident Russian consul we could test the validity of the Chinese
passport received, as before mentioned, from the Chinese minister at
London.

A few days later we were rolling up the valley of the Ili, having
crossed that river by the well-constructed Russian bridge at Fort
Iliysk, the head of navigation for the boats from Lake Balkash. New
faces here met our curious gaze. As an ethnological transition between
the inhabitants of central Asia and the Chinese, we were now among two
distinctly agricultural races—the Dungans and Taranchis. As the
invited guests of these people on several occasions, we were struck
with their extreme cleanliness, economy, and industry; but their
deep-set eyes seem to express reckless cruelty.

[Illustration: STROLLING MUSICIANS.]

The Mohammedan mosques of this people are like the Chinese pagodas
in outward appearance, while they seem to be Chinese in half-Kirghiz
garments. Their women, too, do not veil themselves, although they are
much more shy than their rugged sisters of the steppes. Tenacious of
their word, these people were also scrupulous about returning favors.
Our exhibitions were usually rewarded by a spread of sweets and yellow
Dungan tea. Of this we would partake beneath the shade of their
well-trained grape-arbors, while listening to the music, or rather
discord, of a peculiar stringed instrument played by the boys. Its bow
of two parts was so interlaced with the strings of the instrument as to
play upon two at every draw. Another musician usually accompanied by
beating little sticks on a saucer.

These are the people who were introduced by the Manchus to replace
the Kalmucks in the Kuldja district, and who in 1869 so terribly
avenged upon their masters the blood they previously caused to flow.
The fertile province of Kuldja, with a population of 2,500,000, was
reduced by their massacres to one vast necropolis. On all sides are
canals that have become swamps, abandoned fields, wasted forests, and
towns and villages in ruins, in some of which the ground is still
strewn with the bleached bones of the murdered.

As we ascended the Ili valley piles of stones marked in succession
the sites of the towns of Turgen, Jarkend, Akkend, and Khorgos, names
which the Russians are already reviving in their pioneer settlements.
The largest of these, Jarkend, is the coming frontier town, to take the
place of evacuated Kuldja. About twenty-two miles east of this point
the large white Russian fort of Khorgos stands bristling on the bank of
the river of that name, which, by the treaty of 1881, is now the
boundary-line of the Celestial empire. On a ledge of rocks overlooking
the ford a Russian sentinel was walking his beat in the solitude of a
dreary outpost. He stopped to watch us as we plunged into the flood,
with our Russian telega for a ferry-boat. “All's well,” we heard him
cry, as, bumping over the rocky bottom, we passed from Russia into
China. “Ah, yes,” we thought; ” 'All's well that ends well,' but this
is only the beginning.”

[Illustration: THE CUSTOM-HOUSE AT KULDJA.]

A few minutes later we dashed through the arched driveway of the
Chinese custom-house, and were several yards away before the lounging
officials realized what it was that flitted across their vision. “Stop!
Come back!” they shouted in broken Russian. Amid a confusion of
chattering voices, rustling gowns, clattering shoes, swinging pigtails,
and clouds of opium and tobacco smoke, we were brought into the
presence of the head official. Putting on his huge spectacles, he read
aloud the visé written upon our American passports by the Chinese
minister in London. His wonderment was increased when he further read
that such a journey was being made on the “foot-moved carriages,” which
were being curiously fingered by the attendants. Our garments were
minutely scrutinized, especially the buttons, while our caps and
dark-colored spectacles were taken from our heads, and passed round for
each to try on in turn, amid much laughter.

[Illustration: THE CHINESE MILITARY COMMANDER OF KULDJA.]

Owing to the predominant influence of Russia in these northwestern
confines, our Russian papers would have been quite sufficient to cross
the border into Kuldja. It was only beyond this point that our Chinese
passport would be found necessary, and possibly invalid. After the
usual visés had been stamped and written over, we were off on what
proved to be our six months' experience in the “Middle Kingdom or
Central Empire,” as the natives call it, for to Chinamen there is a
fifth point to the compass—the center, which is China. Not far on the
road we heard the clatter of hoofs behind us. A Kalmuck was dashing
toward us with a portentous look on his features. We dismounted in
apprehension. He stopped short some twenty feet away, leaped to the
ground, and, crawling up on hands and knees, began to
chin-chin
or knock his head on the ground before us. This he continued for some
moments, and then without a word gazed at us in wild astonishment. Our
perplexity over this performance was increased when, at a neighboring
village, a bewildered Chinaman sprang out from the speechless crowd,
and threw himself in the road before us. By a dexterous turn we missed
his head, and passed over his extended queue.

[Illustration: TWO CATHOLIC MISSIONARIES IN THE YARD OF OUR KULDJA
INN.]

Kuldja, with its Russian consul and Cossack station, still maintains
a Russian telegraph and postal service. The mail is carried from the
border in a train of three or four telegas, which rattle along over the
primitive roads in a cloud of dust, with armed Cossacks galloping
before and after, and a Russian flag carried by the herald in front.
Even in the Kuldja post-office a heavily armed picket stands guard over
the money-chest. This postal caravan we now overtook encamped by a
small stream, during the glaring heat of the afternoon. We found that
we had been expected several days before, and that quarters had been
prepared for us in the postal station at the town of Suidun. Here we
spent the night, and continued on to Kuldja the following morning.

Although built by the Chinese, who call it Nin-yuan, Kuldja, with
its houses of beaten earth, strongly resembles the towns of Russian
Turkestan. Since the evacuation by the Russians the Chinese have built
around the city the usual quadrangular wall, thirty feet in height and
twenty feet in width, with parapets still in the course of
construction. But the rows of poplars, the whitewash, and the telegas
were still left to remind us of the temporary Russian occupation. For
several days we were objects of excited interest to the mixed
population. The doors and windows of our Russian quarters were besieged
by crowds. In defense of our host, we gave a public exhibition, and
with the consent of the
Tootai made the circuit on the top of
the city walls. Fully 3000 people lined the streets and housetops to
witness the race to which we had been challenged by four Dungan
horsemen, riding below on the encircling roadway. The distance around
was two miles. The horsemen started with a rush, and at the end of the
first mile were ahead. At the third turning we overtook them, and came
to the finish two hundred yards ahead, amid great excitement. Even the
commander of the Kuldja forces was brushed aside by the chasing rabble.

Russian influence, which even now predominates at Kuldja, was
forcibly indicated, the day after our arrival, during our
investigations as to the validity of our Chinese passports for the
journey to Peking. The Russian consul, whose favor we had secured in
advance through letters from Governor Ivanoff at Vernoye, had
pronounced them not only good, but by far the best that had been
presented by any traveler entering China at this point. After
endeavoring to dissuade us from what he called a foolhardy undertaking,
even with the most valuable papers, he sent us, with his interpreter,
to the Kuldja Tootai for the proper visé.

That dignitary, although deeply interested, was almost amused at the
boldness of our enterprise. He said that no passport would insure
success by the method we proposed to pursue; that, before he could
allow us to make the venture, we must wait for an order from Peking.
This, he said, would subject us to considerable delay and expense, even
if the telegraph and post were utilized through Siberia and Kiakhta.
This was discouraging indeed. But when we discovered, a few minutes
later, that his highness had to call in the learned secretary to trace
our proposed route for him on the map of China, and even to locate the
capital, Peking, we began to question his knowledge of Chinese
diplomacy. The matter was again referred to the consul, who reported
back the following day that his previous assurances were reliable, that
the Tootai would make the necessary visés, and send away at once, by
the regular relay post across the empire, an open letter that could be
read by the officials along the route, and be delivered long before our
arrival at Peking. Such easy success we had not anticipated. The
difficulty, as well as necessity, of obtaining the proper credentials
for traveling in China was impressed upon us by the arrest the previous
day of three Afghan visitors, and by the fact that a German traveler
had been refused, just a few weeks before, permission even to cross the
Mozart pass into Kashgar. So much, we thought, for Russian friendship.

Upon this assurance of at least official consent to hazard the
journey to Peking, a telegram was sent to the chief of police at Tomsk,
to whose care we had directed our letters, photographic material, and
bicycle supplies to be sent from London in the expectation of being
forced to take the Siberian route. These last could not have been
dispensed with much longer, as our cushion-tires, ball-bearings, and
axles were badly worn, while the rim of one of the rear wheels was
broken in eight places for the lack of spokes. These supplies, however,
did not reach us till six weeks after the date of our telegram, to
which a prepaid reply was received, after a week's delay, asking in
advance for the extra postage. This, with that prepaid from London,
amounted to just fifty dollars. The warm weather, after the extreme
cold of a Siberian winter, had caused the tires to stretch so much
beyond their intended size that, on their arrival, they were almost
unfit for use. Some of our photographic material also had been spoiled
through the useless inspection of postal officials.

[Illustration: THE FORMER MILITARY COMMANDER OF KULDJA AND HIS
FAMILY.]

The delay thus caused was well utilized in familiarizing ourselves
as much as possible with the language and characteristics of the
Chinese, for, as we were without guides, interpreters, or servants, and
in some places lacked even official assistance, no travelers, perhaps,
were ever more dependent upon the people than ourselves. The Chinese
language, the most primitive in the world, is, for this very reason
perhaps, the hardest to learn. Its poverty of words reduces its grammar
almost to a question of syntax and intonation. Many a time our
expressions, by a wrong inflection, would convey a meaning different
from the one intended. Even when told the difference, our ears could
not detect it.

Our work of preparation was principally a process of elimination. We
now had to prepare for a forced march in case of necessity. Handle-bars
and seat-posts were shortened to save weight, and even the leather
baggage-carriers, fitting in the frames of the machines, which we
ourselves had patented before leaving England, were replaced by a
couple of sleeping-bags made for us out of woolen shawls and Chinese
oiled-canvas. The cutting off of buttons and extra parts of our
clothing, as well as the shaving of our heads and faces, was also
included by our friends in the list of curtailments. For the same
reason one of our cameras, which we always carried on our backs, and
refilled at night under the bedclothes, we sold to a Chinese
photographer at Suidun, to make room for an extra provision-bag. The
surplus film, with our extra baggage, was shipped by post, via Siberia
and Kiakhta, to meet us on our arrival in Peking.

[Illustration: VIEW OF A STREET IN KULDJA FROM THE WESTERN GATE.]

And now the money problem was the most perplexing of all. “This
alone,” said the Russian consul, “if nothing else, will defeat your
plans.” Those Western bankers who advertise to furnish “letters of
credit to any part of the world” are, to say the least, rather sweeping
in their assertions. At any rate, our own London letter was of no use
beyond the Bosporus, except with the Persian imperial banks run by an
English syndicate. At the American Bible House at Constantinople we
were allowed, as a personal favor, to buy drafts on the various
missionaries along the route through Asiatic Turkey. But in central
Asia we found that the Russian bankers and merchants would not handle
English paper, and we were therefore compelled to send our letter of
credit by mail to Moscow. Thither we had recently sent it on leaving
Tashkend, with instructions to remit in currency to Irkutsk, Siberia.
We now had to telegraph to that point to re-forward over the Kiakhta
post-route to Peking. With the cash on hand, and the proceeds of the
camera, sold for more than half its weight in silver, four and one
third pounds, we thought we had sufficient money to carry us, or,
rather, as much as we could carry, to that point; for the weight of the
Chinese money necessary for a journey of over three thousand miles was,
as the Russian consul thought, one of the greatest of our almost
insurmountable obstacles. In the interior of China there is no coin
except the
chen, or
sapeks, an alloy of copper and tin,
in the form of a disk, having a hole in the center by which the coins
may be strung together. The very recently coined
liang, or
tael, the Mexican piaster specially minted for the Chinese market,
and the other foreign coins, have not yet penetrated from the coast.
For six hundred miles over the border, however, we found both the
Russian money and language serviceable among the Tatar merchants, while
the
tenga, or Kashgar silver-piece, was preferred by the natives
even beyond the Gobi, being much handier than the larger or smaller
bits of silver broken from the
yamba bricks. All, however, would
have to be weighed in the
tinza, or small Chinese scales we
carried with us, and on which were marked the
fün,
tchan,
and
liang of the monetary scale. But the value of these terms is
reckoned in
chen, and changes with almost every district. This
necessity for vigilance, together with the frequency of bad silver and
loaded
yambas, and the propensity of the Chinese to “knock down”
on even the smallest purchase, tends to convert a traveler in China
into a veritable Shylock. There being no banks or exchanges in the
interior, we were obliged to purchase at Kuldja all the silver we would
need for the entire journey of over three thousand miles. “How much
would it take?” was the question that our past experience in Asiatic
travel now aided us to answer. That our calculations were close is
proved by the fact that we reached Peking with silver in our pockets to
the value of half a dollar. Our money now constituted the principal
part of our luggage, which, with camera and film, weighed just
twenty-five pounds apiece. Most of the silver was chopped up into small
bits, and placed in the hollow tubing of the machines to conceal it
from Chinese inquisitiveness, if not something worse. We are glad to
say, however, that no attempt at robbery was ever discovered, although
efforts at extortion were frequent, and sometimes, as will appear, of a
serious nature.

[Illustration: OUR RUSSIAN FRIEND AND MR. SACHTLEBEN LOADED WITH
ENOUGH CHINESE “CASH” TO PAY FOR A MEAL AT A KULDJA RESTAURANT.]

The blowing of the long horns and boom of the mortar cannon at the
fort awoke us at daylight on the morning of July 13. Farewells had been
said the night before. Only our good-hearted Russian host was up to put
an extra morsel in our provision-bag, for, as he said, we could get no
food until we reached the Kirghiz aouls on the high plateau of the
Talki pass, by which we were to cut across over unbeaten paths to the
regular so-called imperial highway, running from Suidun. From the
Catholic missionaries at Kuldja we had obtained very accurate
information about this route as far as the Gobi desert. The expression
Tian Shan Pe-lu, or northern Tian Shan route, in opposition to the Tian
Shan Nan-lu, or southern Tian Shan route, shows that the Chinese had
fully appreciated the importance of this historic highway, which
continues the road running from the extreme western gate of the Great
Wall obliquely across Mongolian Kan-su, through Hami and Barkul, to
Urumtsi. From here the two natural highways lead, one to the
head-waters of the Black Irtish, the other to the passes leading into
the Ili valley, and other routes of the Arolo-Caspian depression. The
latter route, which is now commanded at intervals by Chinese forts and
military settlements, was recently relinquished by Russia only when she
had obtained a more permanent footing on the former in the
trading-posts of Chuguchak and Kobdo, for she very early recognized the
importance of this most natural entry to the only feasible route across
the Chinese empire. In a glowing sunset, at the end of a hot day's
climb, we looked for the last time over the Ili valley, and at dusk, an
hour later, rolled into one of the Kirghiz aouls that are here
scattered among the rich pasturage of the plateau.

[Illustration: A STREET IN THE TARANTCHI QUARTER OF KULDJA.]

Even here we found that our reputation had extended from Kuldja. The
chief advanced with
amans of welcome, and the heavy-matted
curtains in the kibitka doorway were raised, as we passed, in token of
honor. When the refreshing kumiss was served around the evening
camp-fire, the dangers of the journey through China were discussed
among our hosts with frequent looks of misgiving. Thus, from first to
last, every judgment was against us, and every prediction was of
failure, if not of something worse; and now, as we stole out from the
tent by the light of the rising moon, even the specter-like
mountain-peaks around us, like symbols of coming events, were casting
their shadows before. There was something so illusive in the scene as
to make it very impressive. In the morning, early, a score of horsemen
were ready to escort us on the road. At parting they all dismounted and
uttered a prayer to Allah for our safety; and then as we rode away,
drew their fingers across their throats in silence, and waved a solemn
good-by. Such was the almost superstitious fear of these western nomads
for the land which once sent forth a Yengiz Khan along this very
highway.

[Illustration: PRACTISING OUR CHINESE ON A KULDJA CULPRIT.]

Down the narrow valley of the Kuitun, which flows into the Ebi-nor,
startling the mountain deer from the brink of the tree-arched rivulet,
we reached a spot which once was the haunt of a band of those
border-robbers about whom we had heard so much from our apprehensive
friends. At the base of a volcano-shaped mountain lay the ruins of
their former dens, from which only a year ago they were wont to sally
forth on the passing caravans. When they were exterminated by the
government, the head of their chief, with its dangling queue, was
mounted on a pole near-by, and preserved in a cage from birds of prey,
as a warning to all others who might aspire to the same notoriety. In
this lonely spot we were forced to spend the night, as here occurred,
through the carelessness of the Kuldja Russian blacksmith, a very
serious break in one of our gear wheels. It was too late in the day to
walk back the sixteen miles to the Kirghiz encampment, and there obtain
horses for the remaining fifty-eight miles to Kuldja, for nowhere else,
we concluded, could such a break be mended. Our sleeping-bags were now
put to a severe test between the damp ground and the heavy mountain
dew. The penetrating cold, and the occasional panther-like cry of some
prowling animal, kept us awake the greater part of the night, awaiting
with revolvers in hand some expected attack.

[Illustration: THE HEAD OF A BRIGAND EXPOSED ON THE HIGHWAY.]

Five days later we had repassed this spot and were toiling over the
sand and saline-covered depression of the great “Han-Hai,” or Dried-up
Sea. The mountain freshets, dissolving the salt from their sandy
channels, carry it down in solution and deposit it with evaporation in
massive layers, forming a comparatively hard roadway in the midst of
the shifting sand-dunes. Over these latter our progress was extremely
slow. One stretch of fifteen miles, which it took us six hours to
cover, was as formidable as any part of the Turkoman desert along the
Transcaspian railway. At an altitude of only six hundred feet above the
sea, according to our aneroid barometer, and beneath the rays of a July
sun against which even our felt caps were not much protection, we were
half-dragging, half-pushing, our wheels through a foot of sand, and
slapping at the mosquitos swarming upon our necks and faces. These
pests, which throughout this low country are the largest and most
numerous we have ever met, are bred in the intermediate swamps, which
exist only through the negligence of the neighboring villagers. At
night smoldering fires, which half suffocate the human inmates, are
built before the doors and windows to keep out the intruding insects.
All travelers wear gloves, and a huge hood covering the head and face
up to the eyes, and in their hands carry a horse-tail switch to lash
back and forth over their shoulders. Being without such protection we
suffered both day and night.

[Illustration: A CHINESE GRAVEYARD ON THE EASTERN OUTSKIRTS OF
KULDJA.]

The mountain freshets all along the road to Urumtsi were more
frequent and dangerous than any we had yet encountered. Toward evening
the melting snows, and the condensing currents from the plain heated
during the day, fill and overflow the channels that in the morning are
almost dry. One stream, with its ten branches, swept the stones and
boulders over a shifting channel one mile in width. It was when wading
through such streams as this, where every effort was required to
balance ourselves and our luggage, that the mosquitos would make up for
lost time with impunity. The river, before reaching Manas, was so swift
and deep as to necessitate the use of regular government carts. A team
of three horses, on making a misstep, were shifted away from the ford
into deep water and carried far down the stream. A caravan of Chinese
traveling-vans, loaded with goods from India, were crossing at the
time, on their way to the outlying provinces and the Russian border.
General Bauman at Vernoye had informed us that in this way English
goods were swung clear around the circle and brought into Russia
through the unguarded back door.

With constant wading and tramping, our Russian shoes and stockings,
one of which was almost torn off by the sly grab of a Chinese spaniel,
were no longer fit for use. In their place we were now obliged to
purchase the short, white cloth Chinese socks and string sandals, which
for mere cycling purposes and wading streams proved an excellent
substitute, being light and soft on the feet and very quickly dried.
The calves of our legs, however, being left bare, we were obliged, for
state occasions at least, to retain and utilize the upper portion of
our old stockings. It was owing to this scantiness of wardrobe that we
were obliged when taking a bath by the roadside streams to make a quick
wash of our linen, and put it on wet to dry, or allow it to flutter
from the handle-bars as we rode along. It was astonishing even to
ourselves how little a man required when once beyond the pale of
Western conventionalities.

[Illustration: SPLITTING POPPY-HEADS TO START THE OPIUM JUICE.]

From Manas to Urumtsi we began to strike more tillage and fertility.
Maize, wheat, and rice were growing, but rather low and thin. The last
is by no means the staple food of China, as is commonly supposed,
except in the southern portion. In the northern, and especially the
outlying, provinces it is considered more a luxury for the wealthy.
Millet and coarse flour, from which the
mien or dough-strings
are made, is the foundation, at least, for more than half the
subsistence of the common classes. Nor is there much truth, we think,
in the assertion that Chinamen eat rats, although we sometimes
regretted that they did not. After a month or more without meat a dish
of rats would have been relished, had we been able to get it. On the
other hand we have learned that there is a society of Chinamen who are
vegetarians from choice, and still another that will eat the meat of no
animal, such as the ass, horse, dog, etc., which can serve man in a
better way.

[Illustration: THE CHIEF OF THE CUSTOM-HOUSE GIVES A LESSON IN
OPIUM
SMOKING.]

Urumtsi, or Hun-miao (red temple) of the Chinese, still retains its
ancient prestige in being the seat of government for the viceroyalty of
Sin-tsiang, which includes all that portion of western China lying
without the limit of Mongolia and Tibet. Thanks to its happy position,
it has always rapidly recovered after every fresh disaster. It now does
considerable trade with Russia through the town of Chuguchak, and with
China through the great gap which here occurs in the Tian Shan range.
It lies in a picturesque amphitheater behind the solitary “Holy Mount,”
which towers above a well-constructed bridge across its swiftly flowing
river. This city was one of our principal landmarks across the empire;
a long stage of the journey was here completed.

[Illustration: RIDING BEFORE THE GOVERNOR OF MANAS.]

On entering a Chinese city we always made it a rule to run rapidly
through until we came to an inn, and then lock up our wheels before the
crowd could collect. Urumtsi, however, was too large and intricate for
such a manoeuver. We were obliged to dismount in the principal
thoroughfare. The excited throng pressed in upon us. Among them was a
Chinaman who could talk a little Russian, and who undertook to direct
us to a comfortable inn at the far end of the city. This street parade
gathered to the inn yard an overwhelming mob, and announced to the
whole community that “the foreign horses” had come. It had been posted,
we were told, a month before, that “two people of the new world” were
coming through on “strange iron horses,” and every one was requested
not to molest them. By this, public curiosity was raised to the highest
pitch. When we returned from supper at a neighboring restaurant, we
were treated to a novel scene. The doors and windows of our apartments
had been blocked with boxes, bales of cotton, and huge cart-wheels to
keep out the irrepressible throng. Our host was agitated to tears; he
came out wringing his hands, and urging upon us that any attempt on our
part to enter would cause a rush that would break his house down. We
listened to his entreaties on the condition that we should be allowed
to mount to the roof with a ladder, to get away from the annoying
curiosity of the crowd. There we sat through the evening twilight,
while the crowd below, somewhat balked, but not discouraged, stood
taking in every move. Nightfall and a drizzling rain came at last to
our relief.

The next morning a squad of soldiers was despatched to raise the
siege, and at the same time presents began to arrive from the various
officials, from the Tsongtu, or viceroy, down to the superintendent of
the local prisons. The matter of how much to accept of a Chinese
present, and how much to pay for it, in the way of a tip to the bearer,
is one of the finest points of that finest of fine arts, Chinese
etiquette; and yet in the midst of such an abundance and variety we
were hopelessly at sea. Fruits and teas were brought, together with
meats and chickens, and even a live sheep. Our Chinese
visiting-cards—with the Chinese the great insignia of rank—were now
returned for those sent with the presents, and the hour appointed for
the exhibition of our bicycles as requested.

[Illustration: MONUMENT TO A PRIEST AT URUMTSI.]

Long before the time, the streets and housetops leading from the inn
to the viceroy's palace at the far end of the city began to fill with
people, and soldiers were detailed at our request to make an opening
for us to ride through abreast. This, however, did not prevent the
crowd from pushing us against each other, or sticking sticks in the
wheels, or throwing their hats and shoes in front of us, as we rode by.
When in sight of the viceroy's palace, they closed in on us entirely.
It was the worst jam we had ever been in. By no possibility could we
mount our machines, although the mob was growing more and more
impatient. They kept shouting for us to ride, but would give us no
room. Those on the outside pushed the inner ones against us. With the
greatest difficulty could we preserve our equilibrium, and prevent the
wheels from being crushed, as we surged along toward the palace gate;
while all the time our Russian interpreter, Mafoo, on horseback in
front, continued to shout and gesticulate in the wildest manner above
their heads. Twenty soldiers had been stationed at the palace gate to
keep back the mob with cudgels. When we reached them, they pulled us
and our wheels quickly through into the inclosure, and then tried to
stem the tide by belaboring the heads and shoulders in reach, including
those of our unfortunate interpreter, Mafoo. But it was no use.
Everything was swept away before this surging wave of humanity. The
viceroy himself, who now came out to receive us, was powerless. All he
could do was to request them to make room around the palace courtyard
for the coming exhibition. Thousands of thumbs were uplifted that
afternoon, in praise of the wonderful
twee-tah-cheh, or
two-wheeled carts, as they witnessed our modest attempt at trick riding
and special manoeuvering. After refreshments in the palace, to which we
were invited by the viceroy, we were counseled to leave by a rear door,
and return by a roundabout way to the inn, leaving the mob to wait till
dark for our exit from the front.

[Illustration: A BANK IN URUMTSI.]

The restaurant or tea-house in China takes the place of the Western
club-room. All the current news and gossip is here circulated and
discussed over their eating or gambling. One of their games of chance,
which we have frequently noticed, seems to consist in throwing their
fingers at one another, and shouting at the top of their voices. It is
really a matching of numbers, for which the Chinamen make signs on
their fingers, up to the numeral ten. Our entry into a crowded
dungan, or native Mohammedan restaurant, the next morning, was the
signal for exciting accounts of the events of the previous day. We were
immediately invited to take tea with this one, a morning dish of
tung-posas, or nut and sugar dumplings, with another, while a third
came over with his can of
sojeu, or Chinese gin, with an
invitation “to join him.” The Chinese of all nations seem to live in
order to eat, and from this race of epicures has developed a nation of
excellent cooks. Our fare in China, outside the Gobi district, was far
better than in Turkey or Persia, and, for this reason, we were better
able to endure the increased hardships. A plate of sliced meat stewed
with vegetables, and served with a piquant sauce, sliced radishes and
onions with vinegar, two loaves of Chinese
mo-mo, or steamed
bread, and a pot of tea, would usually cost us about three and one
quarter cents apiece. Everything in China is sliced so that it can be
eaten with the chop-sticks. These we at length learned to manipulate
with sufficient dexterity to pick up a dove's egg—the highest
attainment in the chop-stick art. The Chinese have rather a sour than a
sweet tooth. Sugar is rarely used in anything, and never in tea. The
steeped tea-flowers, which the higher classes use, are really more
tasty without it. In many of the smaller towns, our visits to the
restaurant would sometimes result in considerable damage to its
keepers, for the crowd would swarm in after us, knocking over the
table, stools, and crockery as they went, and collect in a circle
around us to watch the “foreigners” eat, and to add their opium and
tobacco smoke to the suffocating atmosphere.

A visit to the local mint in Urumtsi revealed to us the primitive
method of making the
chen, or money-disks before mentioned. Each
is molded instead of cut and stamped as in the West. By its
superintendent we were invited to a special breakfast on the morning of
our departure.

[Illustration: A MAID OF WESTERN CHINA.]

The Chinese are the only people in the Orient, and, so far as we
know, in the European and Asiatic continents, who resemble the
Americans in their love for a good, substantial morning meal. This was
much better adapted to our purpose than the Russian custom, which
compelled us to do the greater part of our day's work on merely bread
and weak tea.

[Illustration: STYLISH CART OF A CHINESE MANDARIN.]

From Urumtsi we had decided to take the northern route to Hami, via
Gutchen and Barkul, in order to avoid as much as possible the sands of
the Tarim basin on the southern slope of the Tian Shan mountains. Two
guards were commissioned by the viceroy to take us in charge, and hand
us over to the next relay station. Papers were given them to be signed
by the succeeding authorities on our safe arrival. This plan had been
adopted by every chief mandarin along the route, in order, not only to
follow out the request of the London minister as written on the
passport, but principally to do us honor in return for the favor of a
bicycle exhibition; but many times we would leave our discomfited
guards to return with unsigned papers. Had we been traveling in the
ordinary way, not only these favors might not have been shown us, but
our project entirely defeated by local obstructions, as was the case
with many who attempted the same journey by caravan. To the good-will
of the mandarins, as well as the people, an indispensable concomitant
of a journey through China, our bicycles were after all our best
passports. They everywhere overcame the antipathy for the foreigner,
and made us cordially welcome.

The costumes of our soldiers were strikingly picturesque. Over the
front and back of the scarlet waistcoats were worked in black silk
letters their military credentials. Over their full baggy trousers were
drawn their riding overalls, which cover only the front and sides of
the legs, the back being cut out just above the cloth top of their
Chinese boots. Instead of a cap, they wear a piece of printed cloth
wrapped tightly around the head, like the American washerwomen. Their
well-cushioned saddles did not save them from the constant jolting to
which our high speed subjected them. At every stopping-place they would
hold forth at length to the curious crowd about their roadside
experiences. It was amusing to hear their graphic descriptions of the
mysterious “ding,” by which they referred to the ring of the cyclometer
at every mile. But the phrase
quai-ti-henn (very fast), which
concluded almost every sentence, showed what feature impressed them
most. Then, too, they disliked very much to travel in the heat of the
day, for all summer traveling in China is done at night. They would
wake us up many hours before daylight to make a start, despite our
previous request to be left alone. Our week's run to Barkul was made,
with a good natural road and favoring conditions, at the rate of
fifty-three miles per day, eight miles more than our general average
across the empire. From Kuldja to the Great Wall, where our cyclometer
broke, we took accurate measurements of the distances. In this way, we
soon discovered that the length of a Chinese
li was even more
changeable than the value of the
tael. According to time and
place, from 185 to 250 were variously reckoned to a degree, while even
a difference in direction would very often make a considerable
difference in the distance. It is needless to say that, at this rate,
the guards did not stay with us. Official courtesy was now confined to
despatches sent in advance. Through this exceptionally wild district
were encountered several herds of antelope and wild asses, which the
natives were hunting with their long, heavy, fork-resting rifles.
Through the exceptional tameness of the jack-rabbits along the road, we
were sometimes enabled to procure with a revolver the luxury of a meat
supper.

[Illustration: A CHINESE PEDDLER FROM BARKUL.]

At Barkul (Tatar) the first evidence of English influence began to
appear in the place of the fading Russian, although the traces of
Russian manufacture were by no means wanting far beyond the Great Wall.
English pulverized sugar now began to take the place of Russian lump.
India rubber, instead of the Russianized French
elastique, was
the native name for our rubber tires. English letters, too, could be
recognized on the second-hand paper and bagging appropriated to the
natives' use, and even the gilded buttons worn by the soldiers bore the
stamp of “treble gilt.” From here the road to Hami turns abruptly
south, and by a pass of over nine thousand feet crosses the declining
spurs of the Tian Shan mountains, which stand like a barrier between
the two great historic highways, deflecting the westward waves of
migration, some to Kashgaria and others to Zungaria. On the southern
slope of the pass we met with many large caravans of donkeys, dragging
down pine-logs to serve as poles in the proposed extension of the
telegraph-line from Su-Chou to Urumtsi. In June of this year the
following item appeared in the newspapers:

“Within a few months Peking will be united by wire with St.
Petersburg; and, in consequence, with the telegraph system of the
entire civilized world. According to the latest issue of the Turkestan
'Gazette,' the telegraph-line from Peking has been brought as far west
as the city of Kashgar. The European end of the line is at Osh, and a
small stretch of about 140 miles now alone breaks the direct telegraph
communication from the Atlantic to the Pacific.”

[Illustration: CHINESE GRAVES ON THE ROAD TO HAMI.]

[Illustration: SCENE IN A TOWN OF WESTERN CHINA.]

Hami is one of those cities which may be regarded as indispensable.
At the edge of the Great Gobi and the converging point of the Nan-lu
and Pe-lu—that is, the southern and northern routes to the western
world—this oasis is a necessary resting-place. During our stop of two
days, to make necessary repairs and recuperate our strength for the
hardships of the desert, the usual calls were exchanged with the
leading officials. In the matter of social politeness the Chinese,
especially the “literati,” have reason to look down upon the barbarians
of the West. Politeness has been likened generally to an air-cushion.
There is nothing in it, but it eases the jolts wonderfully. As a mere
ritual of technicalities it has perhaps reached its highest point in
China. The multitude of honorific titles, so bewildering and even
maddening to the Occidental, are here used simply to keep in view the
fixed relations of graduated superiority. When wishing to be
exceptionally courteous to “the foreigners,” the more experienced
mandarins would lay their doubled fists in the palms of our hands,
instead of raising them in front of their foreheads, with the usual
salutation
Homa. In shaking hands with a Chinaman we thus very
often had our hands full. After the exchange of visiting-cards, as an
indication that their visits would be welcome, they would come on foot,
in carts, or palanquins, according to their rank, and always attended
by a larger or smaller retinue. Our return visits would always be made
by request, on the wheels, either alone or with our interpreter, if we
could find one, for our Chinese was as yet painfully defective. Russian
had served us in good stead, though not always directly. In a
conversation with the Tootai of Schicho, for instance, our Russian had
to be translated into Turki and thence interpreted in Chinese. The more
intelligent of these conversations were about our own and other
countries of the world, especially England and Russia, who, it was
rumored, had gone to war on the Afghanistan border. But the most of
them generally consisted of a series of trivial interrogations
beginning usually with: “How old are you?” Owing to our beards, which
were now full grown, and which had gained for us the frequent title of
yeh renn, or wild men, the guesses were far above the mark. One was
even as high as sixty years, for the reason, as was stated, that no
Chinaman could raise such a beard before that age. We were frequently
surprised at their persistence in calling us brothers when there was no
apparent reason for it, and were finally told that we must be “because
we were both named
Mister on our passports.”

[Illustration: A LESSON IN CHINESE.]

[Illustration: A TRAIL IN THE GOBI DESERT.]

It was already dusk on the evening of August 10 when we drew up to
the hamlet of Shang-loo-shwee at the end of the Hami oasis. The Great
Gobi, in its awful loneliness, stretched out before us, like a vast
ocean of endless space. The growing darkness threw its mantle on the
scene, and left imagination to picture for us the nightmare of our
boyhood days. We seemed, as it were, to be standing at the end of the
world, looking out into the realm of nowhere. Foreboding thoughts
disturbed our repose, as we contemplated the four hundred miles of this
barren stretch to the Great Wall of China. With an early morning start,
however, we struck out at once over the eighty-five miles of the Takla
Makan sands. This was the worst we could have, for beyond the caravan
station of Kooshee we would strike the projecting limits of Mongolian
Kan-su. This narrow tract, now lying to our left between Hami and the
Nan Shan mountains, is characterized by considerable diversity in its
surface, soil, and climate. Traversed by several copious streams from
the Nan Shan mountains, and the moisture-laden currents from the Bay of
Bengal and the Brahmaputra valley, its “desert” stretches are not the
dismal solitudes of the Tarim basin or the “Black” and “Red” sands of
central Asia. Water is found almost everywhere near the surface, and
springs bubble up in the hollows, often encircled by exterior oases.
Everywhere the ground is traversable by horses and carts. This
comparatively fertile tract, cutting the Gobi into two great sections,
has been, ever since its conquest two thousand years ago, of vast
importance to China, being the only feasible avenue of communication
with the western provinces, and the more important link in the only
great highway across the empire. A regular line of caravan stations is
maintained by the constant traffic both in winter and summer. But we
were now on a bit of the genuine Gobi—that is, “Sandy Desert”—of the
Mongolian, or “Shamo” of the Chinese. Everywhere was the same
interminable picture of vast undulating plains of shifting reddish
sands, interspersed with quartz pebbles, agates, and carnelians, and
relieved here and there by patches of wiry shrubs, used as fuel at the
desert stations, or lines of hillocks succeeding each other like waves
on the surface of the shoreless deep. The wind, even more than the
natural barrenness of the soil, prevents the growth of any vegetation
except low, pliant herbage. Withered plants are uprooted and scattered
by the gale like patches of foam on the stormy sea. These terrible
winds, which of course were against us, with the frequently heavy
cart-tracks, would make it quite impossible to ride. The monotony of
many weary hours of plodding was relieved only by the bones of some
abandoned beast of burden, or the occasional train of Chinese carts, or
rather two-wheeled vans, loaded with merchandise, and drawn by five to
six horses or mules. For miles away they would see us coming, and crane
their necks in wondering gaze as we approached. The mulish leaders,
with distended ears, would view our strange-looking vehicles with
suspicion, and then lurch far out in their twenty-foot traces, pulling
the heavily loaded vehicles from the deep-rutted track. But the drivers
were too busy with their eyes to notice any little divergence of this
kind. Dumb with astonishment they continued to watch us till we
disappeared again toward the opposite horizon. Farther on we would meet
a party of Chinese emigrants or exiles, on their way to the fertile
regions that skirt the northern and southern slopes of the Tian Shan
mountains. By these people even the distant valley of the Ili is being
largely populated. Being on foot, with their extraordinary loads
balanced on flexible shoulder-poles, these poor fellows could make only
one station, or from twelve to twenty miles a day. In the presence of
their patience and endurance, we were ashamed to think of such a thing
as hardship.

[Illustration: IN THE GOBI DESERT.]

The station-houses on the desert were nothing more than a collection
of mud huts near a surface well of strongly brackish water. Here, most
of the caravans would put up during the day, and travel at night. There
was no such thing as a restaurant; each one by turn must do his own
cooking in the inn kitchen, open to all. We, of course, were expected
to carry our own provisions and do our own culinary work like any other
respectable travelers. This we had frequently done before where
restaurants were not to be found. Many a time we would enter an inn
with our arms filled with provisions, purchased at the neighboring
bazaars, take possession of the oven and cooking utensils, and proceed
to get up an American meal, while all the time a hundred eyes or more
would be staring at us in blank amazement. But here on the desert we
could buy nothing but very coarse flour. When asked if they had an egg
or a piece of vegetable, they would shout “
Ma-you” (“There is
none") in a tone of rebuke, as much as to say: “My conscience! man,
what do you expect on the Gobi?” We would have to be content with our
own tea made in the iron pot, fitting in the top of the mud oven, and a
kind of sweetened bread made up with our supply of sugar brought from
Hami. This we nicknamed our “Gobi cake,” although it did taste rather
strongly of brackish water and the garlic of previous contents of the
one common cooking-pot. We would usually take a large supply for road
use on the following day, or, as sometimes proved, for the midnight
meal of the half-starved inn-dog. The interim between the evening meal
and bedtime was always employed in writing notes by the feeble,
flickering light of a primitive taper-lamp, which was the best we had
throughout the Chinese journey.

[Illustration: STATION OF SEB-BOO-TCHAN.]

A description of traveling in China would by no means be complete
without some mention of the vermin which infest, not only inns and
houses, but the persons of nearly all the lower classes. Lice and fleas
seem to be the
sine qua non of Chinese life, and in fact the
itching with some seems to furnish the only occasion for exercise. We
have seen even shopkeepers before their doors on a sunny afternoon,
amusing themselves by picking these insidious creatures from their
inner garments. They are one of the necessary evils it seems, and no
secret is made of it. The sleeping
kangs of the Chinese inns,
which are made of beaten earth and heated in winter like an oven,
harbor these pests the year round, not to mention the filthy coverlets
and greasy pillows that were sometimes offered us. Had we not had our
own sleeping-bags, and used the camera, provision-bag, and coats for
pillows, our life would have been intolerable. As it was there was but
little rest for the weary.

The longest station on the desert was thirty-one miles. This was the
only time that we suffered at all with thirst. In addition to the high
mean elevation of the Gobi, about four thousand feet, we had cloudy
weather for a considerable portion of the journey, and, in the Kan-su
district, even a heavy thunder-shower. These occasional summer rains
form, here and there, temporary meres and lakes, which are soon
evaporated, leaving nothing behind except a saline efflorescence.
Elsewhere the ground is furrowed by sudden torrents tearing down the
slopes of the occasional hills or mountains. These dried up river-beds
furnished the only continuously hard surfaces we found on the Gobi;
although even here we were sometimes brought up with a round turn in a
chuck hole, with the sand flying above our heads.

Our aneroid barometer registered approximately six thousand five
hundred feet, when we reached at dusk the summit of the highest range
of hills we encountered on the desert journey. But instead of the
station-hut we expected to find, we were confronted by an old Mongolian
monastery. These institutions, we had found, were generally situated as
this one, at the top of some difficult mountain-pass or at the mouth of
some cavernous gorge, where the pious intercessors might, to the best
advantage, strive to appease the wrathful forces of nature. In this
line of duty the lama was no doubt engaged when we walked into his
feebly-lighted room, but, like all Orientals, he would let nothing
interfere with the performance of his religious duties. With his gaze
centered upon one spot, his fingers flew over the string of beads in
his lap, and his tongue over the stereotyped prayers, with a rapidity
that made our head swim. We stood unnoticed till the end, when we were
at once invited to a cup of tea, and directed to our destination, five
li beyond. Toward this we plodded through the growing darkness and
rapidly cooling atmosphere; for in its extremes of temperature the Gobi
is at once both Siberian and Indian, and that, too, within the short
period of a few hours. Some of the mornings of what proved to be very
hot days were cold enough to make our extremities fairly tingle.

[Illustration: A ROCKY PASS IN THE MOUNTAINS OF THE GOBI.]

A constant diet of bread and tea, together with the hard physical
exercise and mental anxiety, caused our strength at length to fail.

[Illustration: A WASTE OF BLACK SAND IN THE GOBI.]

The constant drinking of brackish water made one of us so ill that
he could retain no food. A high fever set in on the evening of August
15, and as we pulled into the station of Bay-doon-sah, he was forced to
go to bed at once. The other, with the aid of our small medicine
supply, endeavored to ward off the ominous symptoms. In his anxiety,
however, to do all that was possible he made a serious blunder. Instead
of antipyrin he administered the poison, sulphate of zinc, which we
carried to relieve our eyes when inflamed by the alkali dust. This was
swallowed before the truth was discovered. It was an anxious moment for
us both when we picked up the paper from the floor and read the
inscription. We could do nothing but look at each other in silence.
Happily it was an overdose, and the vomiting which immediately followed
relieved both the patient and the anxious doctor. What to do we did not
know. The patient now suggested that his companion should go on without
him, and, if possible, send back medical aid or proper food; but not to
remain and get worse himself. He, on the other hand, refused to leave
without the other. Then too, the outlying town of Ngan-si-chou, the
first where proper food and water could be obtained, was only one day's
journey away. Another effort was decided upon. But when morning came, a
violent hurricane from the southeast swept the sand in our faces, and
fairly blew the sick man over on his wheel. Famishing with thirst,
tired beyond expression, and burning with fever as well as the
withering heat, we reached at last the bank of the Su-la-ho. Eagerly we
plunged into its sluggish waters, and waded through under the walls of
Ngan-si-chou.

[Illustration: A ROAD MARK IN THE GOBI DESERT.]

Ngan-si-chou was almost completely destroyed during the late Dungan
rebellion. Little is now to be seen except heaps of rubbish, ruined
temples, and the scattered fragments of idols. The neglected gardens no
longer check the advancing sands, which in some places were drifting
over the ramparts. Through its abandoned gateway we almost staggered
with weakness, and directed our course to the miserable bazaar. The
only meat we could find was pork, that shibboleth between Mohammedanism
and Confucianism. The Dungan restaurant-keeper would not cook it, and
only after much persuasion consented to have it prepared outside and
brought back to be eaten beneath his roof. With better water and more
substantial food we began, from this time on, to recuperate. But before
us still a strong head wind was sweeping over the many desert stretches
that lay between the oases along the Su-la-ho, and with the constant
walking our sandals and socks were almost worn away. For this reason we
were delayed one evening in reaching the town of Dyou-min-shan. In the
lonely stillness of its twilight a horseman was approaching across the
barren plain, bearing a huge Chinese lantern in his hand, and singing
aloud, as is a Chinaman's custom, to drive off the evil spirits of the
night. He started back, as we suddenly appeared, and then dismounted,
hurriedly, to throw his lantern's glare upon us. “Are you the two
Americans?” he asked in an agitated manner. His question was
surprising. Out in this desert country we were not aware that our
identity was known, or our visit expected. He then explained that he
had been instructed by the magistrate of Dyou-min-shan to go out and
look for us, and escort us into the town. He also mentioned in this
connection the name of Ling Darin—a name that we had heard spoken of
almost with veneration ever since leaving Urumtsi. Who this personage
was we were unable to find out beyond that he was an influential
mandarin in the city of Su-chou, now only a day's journey away.

[Illustration: WITHIN THE WESTERN GATE OF THE GREAT WALL.]

Near that same fortieth parallel of latitude on which our Asiatic
journey was begun and ended, we now struck, at its extreme western
limit, the Great Wall of China. The Kiayu-kuan, or “Jade Gate,” by
which it is here intersected, was originally so called from the fact
that it led into the Khotan country, whence the Chinese traders brought
back the precious mineral. This, with the Shanghai-kuan near the sea,
and the Yuamin-kuan, on the Nankow pass, are the principal gateways in
this “wall of ten thousand
li,” which, until forced by Yengiz
Khan, protected the empire from the Mongolian nomads for a period of
fourteen hundred years. In its present condition the Great Wall belongs
to various epochs. With the sudden and violent transitions of
temperature in the severe Mongolian climate, it may be doubted whether
any portion of Shi Hoangti's original work still survives. Nearly all
the eastern section, from Ordos to the Yellow Sea, was rebuilt in the
fifth century, and the double rampart along the northwest frontier of
the plains of Peking was twice restored in the fifteenth and sixteenth.
North of Peking, where this prodigious structure has a mean height of
about twenty-six feet, and width of twenty feet, it is still in a state
of perfect repair, whereas in many western districts along the Gobi
frontier, as here before us, it is little more than an earthen rampart
about fifteen feet in height, while for considerable distances, as
along the road from Su-chou to Kan-chou, it has entirely disappeared
for miles at a stretch. Both the gate and the wall at this point had
been recently repaired. We could now see it rising and falling in
picturesque undulations as far as the Tibetan ranges. There it stops
altogether, after a westward course of over fifteen hundred miles. In
view of what was before us, we could not but smile as we thought of
that French abbé who undertook, in an elaborate volume, to prove that
the “Great Wall of China” was nothing more than a myth.

We were now past another long anticipated land-mark, and before us,
far down in the plain, lay the city of Su-chou, which, as the terminal
point of the Chinese telegraph-line, would bring us again into electric
touch with the civilized world. But between us and our goal lay the
Edzina river, now swollen by a recent freshet. We began to wade
cautiously through with luggage and wheels balanced on our shoulders.
But just at that moment we perceived, approaching from the distance,
what we took to be a mounted Chinese mandarin, and his servant leading
behind him two richly caparisoned and riderless horses. At sight of us
they spurred ahead, and reached the opposite bank just as we passed the
middle of the stream. The leader now rose in his stirrups, waved his
hat in the air and shouted, in clear though broken English, “Well,
gentlemen, you have arrived at last!” To hear our mother tongue so
unexpectedly spoken in this out-of-the-way part of the world, was
startling. This strange individual, although clad in the regular
mandarin garb, was light-complexioned, and had an auburn instead of a
black queue dangling from his shaven head. He grasped us warmly by the
hand as we came dripping out of the water, while all the time his
benevolent countenance fairly beamed with joy. “I am glad to see you,
gentlemen,” he said. “I was afraid you would be taken sick on the road
ever since I heard you had started across China. I just got the news
five minutes ago that you were at Kiayu-kuan, and immediately came out
with these two horses to bring you across the river, which I feared
would be too deep and swift for you. Mount your ponies, and we will
ride into the city together.”

[Illustration: RIDING BY THE GREAT WALL ON THE ROAD TO SU-CHOU.]

It was some time before the idea flashed across our minds that this
might indeed be the mysterious Ling Darin about whom we had heard so
much. “Yes,” said he, “that is what I am called here, but my real name
is Splingard.” He then went on to tell us that he was a Belgian by
birth; that he had traveled extensively through China, as the companion
of Baron Richthofen, and had thus become so thoroughly acquainted with
the country and its people that on his return to the coast he had been
offered by the Chinese government the position of custom mandarin at
Su-chou, a position just then established for the levying of duty on
the Russian goods passing in through the northwest provinces; that he
had adopted the Chinese dress and mode of living, and had even married,
many years ago, a Chinese girl educated at the Catholic schools in
Tientsin. We were so absorbed in this romantic history that we scarcely
noticed the crowds that lined the streets leading to the Ling Darin's
palace, until the boom of a cannon recalled us to our situation. From
the smile on the jolly face beside us, we knew at once whom we could
hold responsible for this reception. The palace gates were now thrown
open by a host of servants, and in our rags and tatters we rolled at
once from the hardships of the inhospitable desert into the lap of
luxury.

A surplus is not always so easily disposed of as a deficit—at least
we were inclined to think so in the case of our Su-chou diet. The Ling
Darin's table, which, for the exceptional occasion, was set in the
foreign fashion with knives and forks, fairly teemed with abundance and
variety. There was even butter, made from the milk of the Tibetan yak,
and condensed milk for our coffee, the first we had tasted since
leaving Turkey, more than a year before. The Ling Darin informed us
that a can of this milk, which he once presented to Chinese friends,
had been mistaken for a face cosmetic, and was so used by the ladies of
the family. The lack of butter has led many of the missionaries in
China to substitute lard, while the Chinese fry their fat cakes in
various oils. The Ling Darin's wife we found an excellent and even
artistic cook, while his buxom twin daughters could read and write
their own language—a rare accomplishment for a Chinese woman. Being
unaccustomed to foreign manners, they would never eat at the same table
with us, but would come in during the evening with their mother, to
join the family circle and read aloud to us some of their father's
official despatches. This they would do with remarkable fluency and
intelligence.

As guests of our highly respected and even venerated host, we were
visited by nearly all the magistrates of the city. The Ling Darin was
never before compelled to answer so many questions. In self-defense he
was at last forced to get up a stereotyped speech to deliver on each
social occasion. The people, too, besieged the palace gates, and
clamored for an exhibition. Although our own clothes had been sent away
to be boiled, we could not plead this as an excuse. The flowing Chinese
garments which had been provided from the private wardrobe of the Ling
Darin fluttered wildly in the breeze, as we rode out through the city
at the appointed hour. Our Chinese shoes, also, were constantly
slipping off, and as we raised the foot to readjust them, a shout went
up from the crowd for what they thought was some fancy touch in the way
of riding.

[Illustration: A TYPICAL RECEPTION IN A CHINESE TOWN.]

From the barrenness of the Gobi to the rank vegetation of the Edzina
valley, where the grass and grain were actually falling over from
excessive weight, was a most relieving change. Water was everywhere.
Even the roadway served in many places as a temporary irrigating-canal.
On the journey to Kan-chou we were sometimes compelled to ride on the
narrow mud-wall fences that separated the flooded fields of wheat,
millet, and sorghum, the prevailing cereals north of the Hoang-ho
river. Fields of rice and the opium poppy were sometimes met with, but
of the silk-worm and tea-plant, which furnish the great staples of the
Chinese export trade, we saw absolutely nothing on our route through
the northern provinces. Apart from the “Yellow Lands” of the Hoang-ho,
which need no manure, the arable regions of China seem to have
maintained their fecundity for over four thousand years, entirely
through the thoughtful care of the peasantry in restoring to the soil,
under another form, all that the crops have taken from it. The plowing
of the Chinese is very poor. They scarcely do more than scratch the
surface of the ground with their bent-stick plows, wooden-tooth drills,
and wicker-work harrows; and instead of straight lines, so dear to the
eye of a Western farmer, the ridges and furrows are as crooked as
serpents. The real secret of their success seems to lie in the care
they take to replenish the soil. All the sewage of the towns is carried
out every morning at daybreak by special coolies, to be preserved for
manure; while the dried herbs, straw, roots, and other vegetable
refuse, are economized with the greatest care for fuel. The Chinese
peasant offsets the rudeness of his implements with manual skill. He
weeds the ground so carefully that there is scarcely a leaf above the
ground that does not appertain to the crop. All kinds of pumps and
hydraulic wheels are worked, either by the hand, animals, or the wind.
The system of tillage, therefore, resembles market-gardening rather
than the broad method of cultivation common in Europe and America. The
land is too valuable to be devoted to pasture, and the forests nearly
everywhere have been sacrificed to tillage to such an extent that the
material for the enormously thick native coffins has now to be imported
from abroad.

Streams and irrigating-ditches were so frequent that we were
continually saturated with water or covered with mud. Our bare arms and
legs were so tanned and coated that we were once asked by a group of
squalid villagers if “foreigners” ever bathed like themselves. On
dashing down into a village, we would produce consternation or fright,
especially among the women and children, but after the first onset,
giggling would generally follow, for our appearance, especially from
the rear, seemed to strike them as extremely ridiculous. The wheel
itself presented various aspects to their ignorant fancies. It was
called the “flying machine” and “foot-going carriage,” while some even
took it for the “fire-wheel cart,” or locomotive, about which they had
heard only the vaguest rumors. Their ignorance of its source of motive
power often prompted them to name it the “self-moving cart,” just as
the natives of Shanghai are wont to call the electric-light “the
self-coming moon.”

In one out-of-the-way village of northwestern China, we were
evidently taken for some species of centaurs; the people came up to
examine us while on the wheel to see whether or no rider and wheel were
one. We became so harassed with importunities to ride that we were
compelled at last to seek relief in subterfuge, for an absolute
refusal, we found, was of no avail. We would promise to ride for a
certain sum of money, thinking thus to throw the burden of refusal on
themselves. But, nothing daunted, they would pass round the hat. On
several occasions, when told that eggs could not be bought in the
community, an offer of an exhibition would bring them out by the dozen.
In the same way we received presents of tea, and by this means our cash
expenses were considerably curtailed. The interest in the “foreign
horses” was sometimes so great as to stop business and even amusements.
A rather notable incident of this kind occurred on one of the Chinese
holidays. The flag-decked streets, as we rode through, were filled with
the neighboring peasantry, attracted by some traveling theatrical
troupe engaged for the occasion. In fact, a performance was just then
in progress at the open-air theater close at hand. Before we were aware
of it we had rolled into its crowded auditorium. The women were sitting
on improvised benches, fanning and gossiping, while the men stood about
in listless groups. But suddenly their attention was aroused by the
counter attraction, and a general rush followed, to the great detriment
of the temporary peddlers' stands erected for the occasion. Although
entirely deserted, and no doubt consumed with curiosity, the actors
could not lose what the Chinese call “face.” They still continued their
hideous noises, pantomimes, and dialogues to the empty seats.

[Illustration: A CHINAMAN'S WHEELBARROW.]

The last fifty miles into Liang-chou, a city founded by a Catholic
Chinaman over two hundred years ago, we were compelled to make on foot,
owing to an accident that caused us serious trouble all through the
remainder of our Chinese journey. In a rapid descent by a narrow
pathway, the pedal of one of the machines struck upon a protuberance,
concealed by a tuft of grass, snapping off the axle, and scattering the
ball-bearings over the ground. For some miles we pushed along on the
bare axle inverted in the pedal-crank. But the wrenching the machine
thus received soon began to tell. With a sudden jolt on a steep
descent, it collapsed entirely, and precipitated the rider over the
handle-bars. The lower part of the frame had broken short off, where it
was previously cracked, and had bent the top bar almost double in the
fall. In this sad plight, we were rejoiced to find in the “City under
the Shade” the Scotch missionary, Mr. Laughton, who had founded here
the most remote of the China Inland Missions. But even with his
assistance, and that of the best native mechanic, our repairs were
ineffective. At several points along the route we were delayed on this
account. At last the front and rear parts of the machine became
entirely separated. There was no such thing as steel to be found in the
country, no tools fit to work with, and no one who knew the first
principles of soldering. After endeavoring to convince the native
blacksmiths that a delicate bicycle would not stand pounding like a
Chinese cart-wheel, we took the matter into our own hands. An iron bar
was placed in the hollow tubing to hold it in shape, and a band of
telegraph wire passed round from front to rear, along the upper and
lower rods, and then twisted so as to bring the two parts as tightly
together as possible. With a waddling frame, and patched rear-wheel
describing eccentric revolutions, we must have presented a rather
comical appearance over the remaining thousand miles to the coast.

[Illustration: MONUMENT TO THE BUILDER OF A BRIDGE.]

Across the Yellow Hoang-ho, which is the largest river we
encountered in Asia, a pontoon bridge leads into the city of
Lan-chou-foo. Its strategical position at the point where the Hoang-ho
makes its great bend to the north, and where the gateway of the West
begins, as well as its picturesque location in one of the greatest
fruit-bearing districts of China, makes it one of the most important
cities of the empire. On the commanding heights across the river, we
stopped to photograph the picturesque scene. As usual, the crowd
swarmed in front of the camera to gaze into the mysterious lens. All
the missionaries we had met cautioned us against taking photographs in
China, lest we should do violence to the many popular superstitions,
but the only trouble we ever experienced in this respect was in
arousing popular curiosity. We soon learned that in order to get
something besides Chinese heads in our pictures it was necessary first
to point the camera in the opposite direction, and then wheel suddenly
round to the scene we wished to take. As we crossed the river, the
bridge of boats so creaked and swayed beneath the rushing rabble, that
we were glad to stand once more upon the terra firma of the city
streets, which were here paved with granite and marble blocks. As we
rode down the principal thoroughfare, amid the usual din and uproar, a
well-dressed Chinaman rushed out from one of the stores and grabbed us
by the arm. “Do you speak English?” he shouted, with an accent so like
an American, that we leaped from our wheels at once, and grasped his
hand as that of a fellow countryman. This, in fact, he proved to be in
everything but birth. He was one of that party of mandarins' sons which
had been sent over to our country some years ago, as an experiment by
the Chinese government, to receive a thorough American training. We
cannot here give the history of that experiment, as Mr. Woo related
it—how they were subsequently accused of cutting off their queues and
becoming denationalized; how, in consequence, they were recalled to
their native land, and degraded rather than elevated, both by the
people and the government, because they were foreign in their
sentiments and habits; and how, at last, they gradually began to force
recognition through the power of merit alone. He had now been sent out
by the government to engineer the extension of the telegraph-line from
Su-chou to Urumtsi, for it was feared by the government that the
employment of a foreigner in this capacity would only increase the
power for evil which the natives already attributed to this foreign
innovation. The similarity in the phrases,
telegraph pole and
dry heaven, had inspired the common belief that the line of poles
then stretching across the country was responsible for the
long-existing drought. In one night several miles of poles were sawed
short off, by the secret order of a banded conspiracy. After several
decapitations, the poles were now being restored, and labeled with the
words, “Put up by order of the Emperor.”

[Illustration: TWO PAGODAS AT LAN-CHOU-FOO.]

In company with the English missionary, Mr. Redfern, while
attempting to get out of the city on the way to his mountain home, we
were caught in another jam. He counseled us to conceal the weapons we
were carrying in our belts, for fear the sight of them should incite
the mob to some act of violence. Our own experience, however, had
taught us that a revolver in China was worth nothing if not shown. For
persistence, this mob surpassed any we had ever seen. They followed us
out of the city and over the three miles' stretch to the mission
premises, and there announced their intention of remaining
indefinitely. Again Mr. Redfern feared some outbreak, and counseled us
to return to the city and apply to the viceroy himself for protection.
This proved a good move. A special exhibition on the palace
parade-grounds gained for us the valuable favor of one who was only
fourth in rank to the emperor himself. A body-guard of soldiers was
furnished, not only during our sojourn in the city, but for the journey
to Singan-foo, on which a good reception was everywhere insured by an
official despatch sent in advance. In order to secure for us future
respect, a small flag with the government stamp and of yellow color was
given us to fly by the side of our “stars and stripes.” On this was
inscribed the title of “The Traveling Students,” as well as answers to
the more frequent of the common questions—our nationality,
destination, and age. The best mechanic in the local cannon-foundry was
then ordered to make, at government expense, whatever repairs were
possible on our disabled machines. This, however, as it proved, was not
much; most of his time was spent in taking measurements and patterns
for another purpose. If his intentions have been carried out,
Lan-chou-foo is to-day possessed of a “foot-moving carriage” of home
production.

Our sojourn in this city is especially associated with the three
names of Woo, Choo, and Moo—names by no means uncommon in Chinese
nomenclature. We heard of a boy named the abstract numeral,
“sixty-five,” because his grandfather happened to reach that age on the
very day of his birth. Mr. Moo was the local telegraph operator, with
whom we, and our friends Woo and Choo, of Shanghai, associated. All
operators in the Chinese telegraph system are required to read and
write English. The school established for this purpose at Lan-chou we
occasionally visited, and assisted the Chinese schoolmaster to hear the
recitations from Routledge's spelling-book. He, in turn, was a frequent
partaker of our “foreign chows,” which our English-speaking friends
served with knives and forks borrowed from the missionaries. Lily and
bamboo roots, sharks' fins and swallows' nests, and many other Chinese
delicacies, were now served in abundance, and with the
ever-accompanying bowl of rice. In the matter of eating and drinking,
Chinese formality is extreme. A round table is the only one that can be
used in an aristocratic household. The seat of honor is always the one
next to the wall. Not a mouthful can be taken until the host raises his
chop-sticks in the air, and gives the signal. Silence then prevails;
for Confucius says: “When a man eats he has no time for talk.” When a
cup of tea is served to any one in a social party, he must offer it to
every one in the room, no matter how many there are, before proceeding
to drink himself. The real basis of Chinese politeness seems to be
this: They must be polite enough to offer, and you must be polite
enough to refuse. Our ignorance of this great underlying principle
during the early part of the Chinese journey led us into errors both
many and grievous. In order to show a desire to be sociable, we
accepted almost everything that was offered us, to the great chagrin,
we fear, of the courteous donors.

[Illustration: MISSIONARIES AT LAN-CHOU-FOO.]

[Illustration: LI-HUNG-CHANG.
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH SENT TO THE AUTHORS BY THE PRIME MINISTER.]

Our departure from Lan-chou was not, we thought, regretted by the
officials themselves, for we heard that apprehension was expressed lest
the crowds continuing to collect around the telegraph-office should
indulge in a riot. However, we were loath to leave our genial friends
for the society of opium-smokers, for we were now in that province of
China which, next to Sechuen, is most addicted to this habit. From dusk
till bed-time, the streets of the villages were almost deserted for the
squalid opium dens. Even our soldier attendant, as soon as the wooden
saddle was taken from his sore-backed government steed, would produce
his portable lamp, and proceed to melt on his needle the wax-like
contents of a small, black box. When of the proper consistency, the
paste was rolled on a metal plate to point it for the aperture in the
flute-shaped pipe. Half the night would be given to this process, and a
considerable portion of the remaining half would be devoted to smoking
small pinches of tobacco in the peculiar Chinese water-pipe. According
to an official note, issued early in 1882, by Mr. Hart,
Inspector-General of Chinese Customs, considerably less than one per
cent. of the population is addicted to opium-smoking, while those who
smoke it to excess are few. More to be feared is the use of opium as a
poison, especially among Chinese women. The government raises large
sums from the import duty on opium, and tacitly connives at its
cultivation in most of the provinces, where the traders and mandarins
share between them the profits of this officially prohibited drug.

This part of the great historic highway on which we were now
traveling, between the two bends of the Hoang-ho, was found more
extensively patronized than heretofore. Besides the usual caravans of
horses, donkeys, and two-wheeled vans, we occasionally met with a party
of shaven-headed Tibetans traveling either as emissaries, or as traders
in the famous Tibetan sheep-skins and furs, and the strongly-scented
bags of the musk-deer. A funeral cortège was also a very frequent
sight. Chinese custom requires that the remains of the dead be brought
back to their native place, no matter how far they may have wandered
during life, and as the carriage of a single body would often be
expensive, they are generally interred in temporary cemeteries or
mortuary villages, until a sufficient number can be got together to
form a large convoy. Mandarins, however, in death as in life, travel
alone and with retinue. One coffin we met which rested upon poles
supported on the shoulders of thirty-two men. Above on the coffin was
perched the usual white rooster, which is supposed to incorporate,
during transportation, the spirit of the departed. In funeral
ceremonies, especially of the father, custom also requires the children
to give public expression to their grief. Besides many other filial
observances, the eldest son is in duty bound to render the journey easy
for the departed by scattering fictitious paper-money, as spirit toll,
at the various roadside temples.

[Illustration: OPIUM-SMOKERS IN A STREET OF TAI-YUEN-FOO.]

[Illustration: MISSIONARIES AT TAI-YUEN-FOO.]

Singan-foo, the capital of the Middle Kingdom, under the Tsin
dynasty, and a city of the first importance more than two thousand
years ago, is still one of the largest places in the empire, being
exceeded in population probably by Canton alone. Each of its four
walls, facing the cardinal points, is over six miles long and is
pierced in the center by a monumental gate with lofty pavilions. It was
here, among the ruins of an old Nestorian church, built several
centuries before, that was found the famous tablet now sought at a high
price by the British Museum. The harassing mobs gathered from its
teeming population, as well as the lateness of the season, prompted us
to make our sojourn as short as possible. Only a day sufficed to reach
Tong-quan, which is the central stronghold of the Hoang-ho basin, and
one of the best defended points in China. Here, between precipitous
cliffs, this giant stream rushes madly by, as if in protest against its
sudden deflection. Our ferry this time was not the back of a Chinese
coolie nor a jolting ox-cart, but a spacious flat-boat made to
accommodate one or two vehicles at a time. This was rowed at the stern,
like the gondolas of Venice. The mob of hundreds that had been dogging
our foot-steps and making life miserable, during our brief stop for
food, watched our embarkation. We reached the opposite shore, a mile
below the starting-point, and began to ascend from the river-basin to
the highlands by an excavated fissure in the famous “yellow earth.”
This gives its name, not only to the river it discolors, but, from the
extensive region comprised, even to the emperor himself, who takes the
title of “Yellow Lord,” as equivalent to “Master of the World.” The
thickness of this the richest soil in China, which according to Baron
Richthofen is nothing more than so much dust accumulated during the
course of ages by the winds from the northern deserts, is in some
places at least two thousand feet. Much ingenuity has been displayed in
overcoming the difficulties offered to free communication by the
perpendicular walls of these yellow lands. Some of the most frequented
roads have been excavated to depths of from forty to one hundred feet.
Being seldom more than eight or ten feet wide, the wheeled traffic is
conducted by means of sidings, like the “stations” in the Suez Canal.
Being undrained or unswept by the winds, these walled-up tracks are
either dust-beds or quagmires, according to the season; for us, the
autumn rains had converted them into the latter. Although on one of the
imperial highways which once excited the admiration of Marco Polo, we
were now treated to some of the worst stretches we have ever seen. The
mountain ascents, especially those stair-like approaches to the
“Heavenly Gates” before reaching the Pe-chili plains, were steep,
gradeless inclines, strewn with huge upturned blocks of stone, over
which the heavy carts were fairly lifted by the sheer force of
additional horse-flesh. The bridges, too, whose Roman-like masonry
attests the high degree of Chinese civilization during the middle ages,
have long since been abandoned to the ravages of time; while over the
whole country the late Dungan rebellion has left its countless ruins.

[Illustration: ENTERING TONG-QUAN BY THE WEST GATE.]

[Illustration: MONUMENTS NEAR ONE-SHE-CHIEN.]

The people of Shan-si province are noted for their special thrift,
but this quality we observed was sometimes exhibited at the expense of
the higher virtue of honesty. One of the most serious of the many cases
of attempted extortion occurred at a remote country town, where we
arrived late one evening, after learning to our dismay that one of our
remarkably few mistakes in the road had brought us just fifty miles out
of the way. Unusually wearied as we were by the cross-country cuts, we
desired to retire early. In fact, on this account, we were not so
observant of Chinese formality as we might have been. We did not heed
the hinted requests of the visiting officials for a moon-light
exhibition, nor go to the inn-door to bow them respectfully out. We
were glad to take them at their word when they said, with the usual
hypocritical smirk, “Now, don't come out any farther.” This
indiscretion on our part caused them, as well as ourselves, to suffer
in the respect of the assembled rabble. With official connivance, the
latter were now free, they thought, to take unusual liberties. So far,
in our dealings with the Chinese, we had never objected to anything
that was reasonable even from the native point of view. We had long
since learned the force of the Chinese proverb that, “in order to avoid
suspicion you must not live behind closed doors”; and in consequence
had always recognized the common prerogative to ransack our private
quarters and our luggage, so long as nothing was seriously disturbed.
We never objected, either, to their wetting our paper windows with
their tongues, so that they might noiselessly slit a hole in them with
their exceptionally long finger nails, although we did wake up some
mornings to find the panes entirely gone. It was only at the request of
the innkeeper that we sometimes undertook the job of cleaning out the
inn-yard; but this, with the prevalent superstition about the
“withering touch of the foreigner,” was very easily accomplished. Nor
had we ever shown the slightest resentment at being called “foreign
devils”; for this, we learned, was, with the younger generation at
least, the only title by which foreigners were known. But on this
particular night, our forbearance being quite exhausted, we ejected the
intruders bodily. Mid mutterings and threats we turned out the lights,
and the crowd as well as ourselves retired. The next morning the usual
exorbitant bill was presented by the innkeeper, and, as usual, one half
or one third was offered and finally accepted, with the customary
protestations about being under-paid. The innkeeper's grumblings
incited the crowd which early assembled, and from their whispers and
glances we could see that trouble of some kind was brewing. We now
hastened to get the wheels into the road. Just then the innkeeper, at
the instigation of the crowd, rushed out and grabbed the handle-bars,
demanding at the same time a sum that was even in advance of his
original price. Extortion was now self-evident, and, remonstrance being
of no avail, we were obliged to protect ourselves with our fists. The
crowd began to close in upon us, until, with our backs against the
adjoining wall, we drew our weapons, at which the onward movement
changed suddenly to a retreat. Then we assumed the aggressive, and
regained the wheels which had been left in the middle of the road. The
innkeeper and his friend now caught hold of the rear wheels. Only by
seizing their queues could we drag them away at all, but even then
before we could mount they would renew their grasp. It was only after
another direct attack upon them that we were able to mount, and dash
away.

[Illustration: MONUMENT NEAR CHANG-SHIN-DIEN.]

A week's journeying after this unpleasant episode brought us among
the peanuts, pigs, and pig-tails of the famous Pe-chili plains. Vast
fields of peanuts were now being plowed, ready to be passed through a
huge coarse sieve to separate the nuts from the sandy loam. Sweet
potatoes, too, were plentiful. These, as well as rice balls, boiled
with a peculiar dry date in a triangular corn-leaf wrapper, we
purchased every morning at daybreak from the pots of the early
street-venders, and then proceeded to the local bake-shops, where the
rattling of the rolling-pins prophesied of stringy fat cakes cooked in
boiling linseed oil, and heavy dough biscuits cleaving to the urn-like
oven.

It was well that we were now approaching the end of our journey, for
our wheels and clothing were nearly in pieces. Our bare calves were
pinched by the frost, for on some of the coldest mornings we would find
a quarter of an inch of ice. Our rest at night was broken for the want
of sufficient covering. The straw-heated
kangs would soon cool
off, and leave us half the night with only our thin sleeping-bags to
ward off rheumatism.

But over the beaten paths made by countless wheelbarrows we were now
fast nearing the end. It was on the evening of November 3, that the
giant walls of the great “Residence,” as the people call their imperial
capital, broke suddenly into view through a vista in the surrounding
foliage. The goal of our three-thousand-one-hundred-and-sixteen-mile
journey was now before us, and the work of the seventy-first riding day
almost ended. With the dusk of evening we entered the western gate of
the “Manchu City,” and began to thread its crowded thoroughfares. By
the time we reached Legation street or, as the natives egotistically
call it, “The Street of the Foreign Dependencies,” night had veiled our
haggard features and ragged garments. In a dimly lighted courtyard we
came face to face with the English proprietor of the Hotel de Peking.
At our request for lodging, he said, “Pardon me, but may I first ask
who you are and where you come from?” Our unprepossessing appearance
was no doubt a sufficient excuse for this precaution. But just then his
features changed, and he greeted us effusively. Explanations were now
superfluous. The “North China Herald” correspondent at Pao-ting-foo had
already published our story to the coast.

That evening the son of the United States minister visited us, and
offered a selection from his own wardrobe until a Chinese tailor could
renew our clothing. With borrowed plumes we were able to accept
invitations from foreign and Chinese officials. Polite
cross-examinations were not infrequent, and we fear that entire faith
in our alleged journey was not general until, by riding through the
dust and mud of Legation street, we proved that Chinese roads were not
altogether impracticable for bicycle traveling.

[Illustration: ON THE PEI-HO.]

The autumn rains had so flooded the low-lying country between the
capital and its seaport, Tientsin, that we were obliged to abandon the
idea of continuing to the coast on the wheels, which by this time were
in no condition to stand unusual strain. On the other hand the
house-boat journey of thirty-six hours down the Pei-ho river was a
rather pleasant diversion.

Our first evening on the river was made memorable by an unusual
event. Suddenly the rattling of tin pans, the tooting of horns, and the
shouting of men, women, and children, aroused us to the realization
that something extraordinary was occurring. Then we noticed that the
full moon in a cloudless sky had already passed the half-way mark in a
total eclipse. Our boatmen now joined in the general uproar, which
reached its height when the moon was entirely obscured. In explanation
we were told that the “Great Dragon” was endeavoring to swallow up the
moon, and that the loudest possible noise must be made to frighten him
away. Shouts hailed the reappearance of the moon. Although our boatmen
had a smattering of pidjin, or business, English, we were unable to get
a very clear idea of Chinese astronomy. In journeying across the empire
we found sufficient analogy in the various provincial dialects to
enable us to acquire a smattering of one from another as we proceeded,
but we were now unable to see any similarity whatever between “You
makee walkee look see,” and “You go and see,” or between “That belong
number one pidjin,” and “That is a first-class business.” This jargon
has become a distinct dialect on the Chinese coast.

[Illustration: A CHINAMAN SCULLING ON THE PEI-HO.]

On our arrival in Tientsin we called upon the United States Consul,
Colonel Bowman, to whom we had brought several letters from friends in
Peking. During a supper at his hospitable home, he suggested that the
viceroy might be pleased to receive us, and that if we had no
objection, he would send a communication to the
yamen, or
official residence. Colonel Bowman's secretary, Mr. Tenney, who had
been some time the instructor of the viceroy's sons, and who was on
rather intimate terms with the viceroy himself, kindly offered to act
as interpreter. A favorable answer was received the next morning, and
the time for our visit fixed for the afternoon of the day following.
But two hours before the appointed time a message was received from the
viceroy, stating that he was about to receive an unexpected official
visit from the
phantai, or treasurer, of the Pe-chili province
(over which Li-Hung-Chang himself is viceroy), and asking for a
postponement of our visit to the following morning at 11 o'clock. Even
before we had finished reading this unexpected message, the booming of
cannon along the Pei-ho river announced the arrival of the
phantai's
boats before the city. The postponement of our engagement at this late
hour threatened to prove rather awkward, inasmuch as we had already
purchased our steamship tickets for Shanghai, to sail on the
Fei-ching at five o'clock the next morning. But through the
kindness of the steamship company it was arranged that we should take a
tug-boat at Tong-ku, on the line of the Kai-ping railroad, and overtake
the steamer outside the Taku bar. This we could do by taking the train
at Tientsin, even as late as seven hours after the departure of the
steamer. Steam navigation in the Pei-ho river, over the forty or fifty
miles' stretch from Tientsin to the gulf, is rendered very slow by the
sharp turns in the narrow stream—the adjoining banks being frequently
struck and plowed away by the bow or stern of the large ocean steamers.

When we entered the consulate the next morning, we found three
palanquins and a dozen coolies in waiting to convey our party to the
viceroy's residence. Under other circumstances we would have patronized
our “steeds of steel,” but a visit to the “biggest” man in China had to
be conducted in state. We were even in some doubt as to the propriety
of appearing before his excellency in bicycle costume; but we
determined to plead our inability to carry luggage as an excuse for
this breach of etiquette.

[Illustration: SALT HEAPS AT THE GOVERNMENT WORKS AT TONG-KU.]

The first peculiarity the Chinese notice in a foreigner is his
dress. It is a requisite with them that the clothes must be loose, and
so draped as to conceal the contour of the body. The short sack-coat
and tight trousers of the foreigner are looked upon as certainly
inelegant, if not actually indecent.

[Illustration: WINDMILLS AT TONG-KU FOR RAISING SALT WATER.]

It was not long before we were out of the foreign settlement, and
wending our way through the narrow, winding streets, or lanes, of the
densely populated Chinese city. The palanquins we met were always
occupied by some high dignitary or official, who went sweeping by with
his usual vanguard of servants, and his usual frown of excessive
dignity. The fact that we, plain “foreign devils,” were using this mode
of locomotion, made us the objects of considerable curiosity from the
loiterers and passers-by, and in fact had this not been the case, we
should have felt rather uncomfortable. The unsympathetic observation of
mobs, and the hideous Chinese noises, had become features of our daily
life.

The
yamen courtyard, as we entered, was filled with empty
palanquins and coolie servants waiting for the different mandarins who
had come on official visits. The
yamen itself consisted of low
one-story structures, built in the usual Chinese style, of wood and
adobe brick, in a quadrangular form around an inner courtyard. The
common Chinese paper which serves for window-glass had long since
vanished from the ravages of time, and the finger-punches of vandals.
Even here, at the
yamen of the prime minister of China, dirt and
dilapidation were evident on every hand. The anteroom into which we
were ushered was in keeping with its exterior. The paper that covered
the low walls and squatty ceiling, as well as the calico covering on
the divans, was soiled and torn. The room itself was filled with
mandarins from various parts of the country, waiting for an audience
with his excellency. Each wore the official robe and dish-pan hat, with
its particular button or insignia of rank. Each had a portly, well-fed
appearance, with a pompous, dignified mien overspreading his features.
The servant by whom we had sent in our Chinese visiting-cards returned
and asked us to follow him. Passing through several rooms, and then
along a narrow, darkened hallway, we emerged into an inner courtyard.
Here there were several servants standing like sentinels in waiting for
orders; others were hurrying hither and thither with different messages
intrusted to their care. This was all there was to give to the place
the air of busy headquarters. On one side of the courtyard the doors of
the “foreign reception” room opened. Through these we were ushered by
the liveried servant, who bore a message from the viceroy, asking us to
wait a few moments until he should finish some important business.

The foreign reception-room in which we were now sitting was the only
one in any official residence in the empire, and this single instance
of compliance with foreign customs was significant as bearing upon the
attitude toward Western ideas of the man who stands at the head of the
Chinese government. Everything about us was foreign except a Chinese
divan in one corner of the room. In the middle of the floor stood a
circular sofa of the latest pattern, with chairs and settees to match,
and at one end a foreign stove, in which a fire had been recently
lighted for our coming. Against the wall were placed a full-length
mirror, several brackets, and some fancy work. The most interesting of
the ornaments in the room were portraits of Li-Hung-Chang himself,
Krupp the gun-maker, Armstrong the ship-builder, and the immortal
“Chinese Gordon,” the only foreigner, it is said, who has ever won a
spark of admiration from the Chinese people.

While we were waiting for the viceroy, his second son, the pupil of
Mr. Tenney, came in and was introduced in the foreign fashion. His
English was fluent and correct. He was a bright, intelligent lad of
nineteen years, then about to take his first trial examinations for the
Chinese degree of scholarship, which, if attained, would make him
eligible for official position. Although a son of the viceroy he will
have to rise by his own merit.

Our conversation with the viceroy's son extended over ten or fifteen
minutes. He asked many questions about the details of our journey.
“How,” said he, “could you get along without interpreter, guide, or
servant, when every foreigner who goes even from here to Peking has to
have them?” He questioned us as to whether or not the Chinese had ever
called us names. We replied that we usually traveled in China under the
nom de Chinois,
yang queedza (the foreign devils), alias
yeh renn (the wild men). A blush overspread his cheeks as he said:
“I must apologize for my countrymen; I hope you will excuse them, for
they know no better.” The young man expressed deep interest in America
and American institutions, and said if he could obtain his father's
consent he would certainly make a visit to our country. This was the
only son then at home with the viceroy, his eldest son being minister
to Japan. The youngest, the viceroy's favorite, was, it was said, the
brightest and most promising. His death occurred only a few months
before our arrival in Tientsin.

We were holding an animated conversation when the viceroy himself
was announced. We all stood to show our respect for the prime minister
whom General Grant included among the three greatest statesmen of his
day. The viceroy was preceded by two body-servants. We stood before a
man who appeared to be over six feet in height, although his head and
shoulders were considerably bent with age. His flowing dress was made
of rich colored silk, but very plain indeed. Any ornamentation would
have been a profanation of the natural dignity and stateliness of
Li-Hung-Chang. With slow pace he walked into the room, stopped a moment
to look at us, then advanced with outstretched hand, while a faint
smile played about his features and softened the piercing glance of his
eyes. He shook our hands heartily in the foreign fashion, and without
any show of ceremony led the way into an adjoining room, where a long
council-table extended over half the length. The viceroy took the
arm-chair at the head, and motioned us to take the two seats on his
left, while Mr. Tenney and the viceroy's son sat on his right. For
almost a minute not a word was said on either side. The viceroy had
fixed his gaze intently upon us, and, like a good general perhaps, was
taking a thorough survey of the field before he opened up the cannonade
of questions that was to follow. We in turn were just as busily engaged
in taking a mental sketch of his most prominent physical
characteristics. His face was distinctly oval, tapering from a very
broad forehead to a sharp pointed chin, half-obscured by his thin, gray
“goatee.” The crown of his head was shaven in the usual Tsing fashion,
leaving a tuft of hair for a queue, which in the viceroy's case was
short and very thin. His dry, sallow skin showed signs of wrinkling; a
thick fold lay under each eye, and at each end of his upper lip. There
were no prominent cheek-bones or almond-shaped eyes, which are so
distinctively seen in most of the Mongolian race. Under the scraggy
mustache we could distinguish a rather benevolent though determined
mouth; while his small, keen eyes, which were somewhat sunken, gave
forth a flash that was perhaps but a flickering ember of the fire they
once contained. The left eye, which was partly closed by a paralytic
stroke several years ago, gave him a rather artful, waggish appearance.
The whole physiognomy was that of a man of strong intuition, with the
ability to force his point when necessary, and the shrewd common sense
to yield when desiring to be politic.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said at last, through Mr. Tenney as
interpreter, “you don't look any the worse for your long journey.”

“We are glad to hear your excellency say so,” we replied; “it is
gratifying to know that our appearance speaks well for the treatment we
have received in China.”

We hope our readers will consider the requirements of Chinese
etiquette as sufficient excuse for our failure to say candidly that, if
we looked healthy, it was not the fault of his countrymen.

“Of all the countries through which you have passed, which do you
consider the best?” the viceroy then asked.

In our answer to this question the reader would no doubt expect us
to follow etiquette, and say that we thought China was the best; and,
perhaps, the viceroy himself had a similar expectation. But between
telling a positive lie, and not telling the truth, there is perhaps
sufficient difference to shield us from the charge of gross
inconsistency. We answered, therefore, that in many respects, we
considered America the greatest country we had seen. We ought of course
to have said that no reasonable person in the world would ever think of
putting any other country above the Celestial Empire; our bluntness
elicited some surprise, for the viceroy said:

“If then you thought that America was the best why did you come to
see other countries?”

“Because until we had seen other countries,” we replied, “we did not
know that America was the best.” But this answer the viceroy evidently
considered a mere subterfuge. He was by no means satisfied.

“What was your real object in undertaking such a peculiar journey?”
he asked rather impatiently.

“To see and study the world and its peoples,” we answered; “to get a
practical training as a finish to a theoretical education. The bicycle
was adopted only because we considered it the most convenient means of
accomplishing that purpose.”

The viceroy, however, could not understand how a man should wish to
use his own strength when he could travel on the physical force of some
one else; nor why it was that we should adopt a course through central
Asia and northwestern China when the southern route through India would
have been far easier and less dangerous. He evidently gave it up as a
conundrum, and started out on another line.

“Do you consider the Shah of Persia a powerful monarch?” was his
next question.

“Powerful, perhaps, in the Oriental sense,” we replied, “but very
weak in comparison with the Western nations. Then, too, he seems to be
losing the power that he does have—he is compelled to play more and
more into the hands of the Russians.”

“Do you think that Russia will eventually try to take possession of
Persia?” the viceroy interrupted.

“That, of course, is problematical,” we answered, with the
embarrassment men of our age might feel at being instigated to talk
politics with a prime minister. “What we do know, for certain, is that
Russia is now, with her Transcaspian railroad, within about forty miles
of Meshed, the capital of Persia's richest province of Khorasan; that
she now has a well-engineered and, for a great portion of the way, a
macadamized road to that city across the Kopet Dagh mountains from
Askabad, the capital of Russian Transcaspia; and that half that road
the Persians were rather forcibly invited to construct.”

[Illustration: MR. LIANG, EDUCATED IN THE UNITED STATES, NOW IN
THE
SHIPPING BUSINESS.]

“Do you think,” again interrupted the viceroy, whose interest in the
Russians now began to take a more domestic turn, “that the Russians
would like to have the Chinese province of Ili?”

To this question we might very appropriately have said, “No”; for
the reason that we thought Russia had it already. She is only waiting
to draw it in, when she feels certain that her Siberian flank is better
protected. The completion of the Transsiberian railroad, by which
troops can be readily transported to that portion of her dominion, may
change Russia's attitude toward the province of Ili. We did not,
however, say this to his excellency. We merely replied that we believed
Russia was seldom known to hold aloof from anything of value, which she
thought she could get with impunity. As she was now sending cart-load
after cart-load of goods over the border, through Ili, into northern
and western China, without paying a cent of customs duty, while on the
other hand not even a leaf of tea or thread of cotton passed over the
Russian line from China without the payment of an exorbitant tariff;
and as she had already established in Kuldja a postal, telegraph, and
Cossack station, it would seem that she does not even now view the
province of Ili as wholly foreign to the Russian empire.

At this the viceroy cleared his throat, and dropped his eyes in
thoughtful mood, as much as to say: “Ah, I know the Russians; but there
is no help for it.”

At this point we ventured to ask the viceroy if it were true, as we
had been informed, that Russia had arranged a treaty with China, by
which she was entitled to establish consuls in several of the interior
provinces of the Chinese empire, but he evaded the question with
adroitness, and asked:

“Didn't you find the roads very bad in China?”

This question was creditable to the viceroy's knowledge of his own
country, but to this subject we brought the very best Chinese
politeness we could muster. We said that inasmuch as China had not yet
adopted the bicycle, her roads, of course, were not adapted to that
mode of locomotion.

The viceroy then asked us to describe the bicycle, and inquired if
such a vehicle did not create considerable consternation among the
people.

[Illustration: A CHINESE SEEDING-DRILL.]

We told him that the bicycle from a Chinese point of view was
capable of various descriptions. On the passports given us by the
Chinese minister in London the bicycle was called “a seat-sitting,
foot-moving machine.” The natives in the interior had applied to it
various epithets, among which were
yang ma (foreign horse),
fei-chay (flying-machine),
szüdzun chay (self-moving cart),
and others. The most graphic description, perhaps, was given by a
Chinaman whom we overheard relating to his neighbors the first
appearance of the bicycle in his quiet little village. “It is a little
mule,” said he, “that you drive by the ears, and kick in the sides to
make him go.” A dignified smile overspread the viceroy's features.

“Didn't the people try to steal your money?” he next inquired.

“No,” we replied. “From our impoverished appearance, they evidently
thought we had nothing. Our wardrobe being necessarily limited by our
mode of travel, we were sometimes reduced to the appearance of
traveling mendicants, and were often the objects of pity or contempt.
Either this, or our peculiar mode of travel, seemed to dispel all
thought of highway robbery; we never lost even so much as a button on
our journey of over three thousand miles across the Chinese empire.”

“Did the governors you met treat you well?” he asked; and then
immediately added: “Being scholars, were you not subjected to some
indignity by being urged to perform for every mandarin you met?”

“By nearly all the governors,” we said, “we were treated very kindly
indeed; but we were not so certain that the same favors would have been
extended to us had we not cheerfully consented to give exhibitions of
bicycle riding.”

There was now a lull in the conversation. The viceroy shifted his
position in his chair, and took another whiff from the long, slender
Chinese pipe held to his mouth by one of his body-servants. One whiff,
and the pipe was taken away to be emptied and refilled. After a short
respite he again resumed the conversation, but the questions he now
asked were of a personal nature. We enumerate a few of them, without
comment, only for the purpose of throwing some additional light on the
character of our questioner.

“About how much did the trip cost you? Do you expect to get back all
or more than you spent? Will you write a book?

“Did you find on your route any gold or silver deposits?

“Do you like the Chinese diet; and how much did one meal cost you?

“How old are you? [One of the first questions a Chinese host usually
asks his guest.] Are you married? What is the trade or profession of
your parents? Are they wealthy? Do they own much land?” (A Chinaman's
idea of wealth is limited somewhat by the amount of land owned.)

“Were you not rash in attempting such a journey? Suppose you had
been killed out in the interior of Asia, no one would ever have heard
of you again.

“Are you Democrats or Republicans?” (The viceroy showed considerable
knowledge of our government and institutions.)

“Will you run for any political office in America? Do you ever
expect to get into Congress?

“Do you have to buy offices in America?” was the last inquiry.

There was considerable hesitancy on the part of us both to answer
this question. Finally we were obliged to admit that sometimes such was
the case. “Ah,” said the viceroy, “that is a very bad thing about
American politics.” But in this censure he was even more severe on his
own country than America. Referring to ourselves in this connection,
the viceroy ventured to predict that we might become so well-known as
the result of our journey that we could get into office without paying
for it. “You are both young,” he added, “and can hope for anything.”

During the conversation the viceroy frequently smiled, and sometimes
came so near overstepping the bounds of Chinese propriety as to
chuckle. At first his reception was more formal, but his interest soon
led him to dispense with all formality, and before the close of the
interview the questions were rapidly asked and discussed. We have had
some experience with examining attorneys, and an extended acquaintance
with the American reporter; but we are convinced that for genuine
inquisitiveness Li-Hung-Chang stands peerless. We made several attempts
to take leave, but were interrupted each time by a question from the
viceroy. Mr. Tenney, in fact, became fatigued with the task of
interpreting, so that many of the long answers were translated by the
viceroy's son.

[Illustration: A CHINESE BRIDE.]

The interview was conducted as nearly as possible in the foreign
fashion. We smoked cigarettes, and a bottle of champagne was served.
Finally the interview was brought to a close by a health from the
viceroy to “Ta-ma-quo” (the great American country).

In conclusion we thanked the viceroy for the honor he had done us.
He replied that we must not thank him at all; that he was only doing
his duty. “Scholars,” said he, “must receive scholars.”

The viceroy rose from his chair with difficulty; the servant took
him by the elbows and half lifted him to his feet. He then walked
slowly out of the room with us, and across the courtyard to the main
exit. Here he shook us heartily by the hand, and bowed us out in the
Chinese manner.

Li-Hung-Chang is virtually the emperor of the Celestial Empire; the
present “Son of Heaven” (the young emperor) has only recently reached
his majority. Li-Hung-Chang is China's intellectual height, from whom
emanate nearly all her progressive ideas. He stands to-day in the light
of a mediator between foreign progressiveness and native prejudice and
conservatism. It has been said that Li-Hung-Chang is really
anti-foreign at heart; that he employs the Occidentals only long enough
for them to teach his own countrymen how to get along without them.
Whether this be so or not, it is certain that the viceroy recognizes
the advantages to be derived from foreign methods and inventions, and
employs them for the advancement of his country. Upon him rests the
decision in nearly all the great questions of the empire. Scarcely an
edict or document of any kind is issued that does not go over his
signature or under his direct supervision. To busy himself with the
smallest details is a distinctive characteristic of the man. Systematic
methods, combined with an extraordinary mind, enable him to accomplish
his herculean task. In the eastern horizon Li-Hung-Chang shines as the
brilliant star of morning that tells of the coming of a brighter dawn.

FOOTNOTE

1 Eight years before the first recorded ascent of Ararat by Dr.
Parrot
(1829), there appeared the following from “Travels in
Georgia,
Persia, Armenia, and Ancient Babylonia,” by Sir Robert Ker
Porter,
who, in his time, was an authority on southwestern Asia:
“These
inaccessible heights [of Mount Ararat] have never been trod
by the
foot of man since the days of Noah, if even then; for my idea
is
that the Ark rested in the space between the two heads (Great
and
Little Ararat), and not on the top of either. Various
attempts have
been made in different ages to ascend these tremendous
mountain
pyramids, but in vain. Their forms, snows, and glaciers are
insurmountable obstacles: the distance being so great from
the
commencement of the icy region to the highest points, cold
alone
would be the destruction of any one who had the hardihood to
persevere.”

Inconsistent hyphenation (
e. g. “footsteps” and “foot-steps",
“innkeeper” and “inn-keeper", “moonlight” and “moon-light", “pigtails”
and “pig-tails", “wickerwork” and “wicker-work"), punctuation or
italicizing has not been changed. The authors use both “Yengiz” and
“Yenghiz", “bakshish” and “baksheesh", “pilaff” and “pillao”.